


Kingdom of Rust

by Colms



Series: Rusting to Breathe [1]
Category: Cosmere - Brandon Sanderson, Mistborn - Brandon Sanderson, Shadows of Self - Brandon Sanderson, The Alloy of Law - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: F/M, Fake Dating, Murder Mystery, Mutual Pining, Shadows of Self spoilers, Slow Burn, murder is the key to romance, rated 'm' for 'murder'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-26 14:38:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 61,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5008555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colms/pseuds/Colms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Shadows of Self, Wayne has a lot of downtime. Fortunately for him, the constabulary is not running out of murders any time soon. Can Marasi and Wayne solve this murder before the killer strikes again, especially when the target moves a little closer to home? Even more importantly... how do you catch a murderer you can't interact with?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> This is extremely self-indulgent and I apologize for everything I choose to be. Takes place after Shadows of Self, so, hark! Spoilers abound!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I'm doing this. I really can't believe I'm planning a full-sized, long-ass fic. I have no idea if I'll stick with it or how long this is going to keep me interested, but my love for Wayne and Marasi is immense, and they deserve the spotlight. This is going to be some serious slow burn, you guys, because I am all for self-indulgence. Also, bear with me--I'm getting used to Wayne's voice right now, so the first few chapters will probably be from Marasi's POV until I get a good handle on Wayne.

“This is _your_ problem, Lieutenant.” Constable-General Reddi scowled at Marasi, red faced and blustering. ‘This’ was currently sitting at not just _any_ desk, but the Constable-General’s desk, feet propped up on top of a few carefully-stacked piles of paperwork. His worn boots were muddy and he was munching nonchalantly on some blueberry scones that likely belonged to someone else. He was entirely unconcerned with the confused glances from the other constables, and completely disregarded the venomous look Reddi was directing him. 

Wayne was most certainly _not_ her problem, but she sighed and strode into the office nonetheless, tapping the desk’s surface to catch his attention (which had been snagged by a pretty young constable who was new to the precinct). His head lolled lazily as his gaze tilted up to her.

“Oh, hey,” he said with his familiar, lazy grin, as if he hadn’t noticed her approach.

“What are you doing here, Wayne?” She tried very hard not to sound exasperated, a task far easier said than done. Although Marasi was growing quite used to the man’s presence and his particular breed of oddity, she had been asked earlier that week to give a special lecture at the University and had taken a day off to do so. It was truly surprising how much catch-up work there was to do. While she did occasionally find herself enjoying Wayne’s company, it was _not_ appreciated at times when she had scores of work to do. Her skin prickled as she felt Reddi’s eyes on her back. Once, she might have shrunk back at that feeling. Today, she simply felt tired and impatient. 

“What’s it look like I’m doing, mate?” Wayne stuffed the remnants of a scone into his mouth and spoke around it. All it did was remind Marasi that she hadn’t had time for breakfast that morning. Her stomach complained. Unhelpful. “I’m here on account of Wax bein’ _forcibly detained_ by your crazy sister.”

At this, Marasi’s face fell. The revelation of Bleeder’s identity had been a harsh blow to Wax. He was a resilient man, but not even he could bounce back that quickly. Marasi had thought he might throw himself into his duties with even more intensity, but grief was a complicated, suffocating thing. It would take Wax time to come to terms, and Steris was with him frequently—he seemed to appreciate her presence. The concerned questions would have to wait until Wayne had evacuated Reddi’s office, unfortunately. Marasi schooled her features and forced an even tone. “In other words, you’re here because you’re bored?”

“See, always knew you were smart. So long as you remember I’m the real clever one around here.” The pride in his voice was nothing short of genuine.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Marasi minced. She opened her mouth to direct him out of the chair when the staff sergeant interrupted them, his boots thumping down the rows of desks with pronounced urgency.

“There’s been a murder,” he bellowed, face creased into a somber, stormy expression. “I need all hands on deck in the briefing room, _now._ Colms, be ready to build a profile.”

The precinct leapt into action immediately. Marasi was carried along with it, barely given time to snatch her notebook and pen from her desk as she was swept into the briefing room. Unsurprisingly, Wayne dogged at her heels, markedly interested in the occurrence of a homicide. Of course that would get his attention. 

Many of the faces in the briefing room were pinched with exhaustion. Some of the field constables would have been nearing the end of their shifts (and even more would have still been at the constabulary working overtime), and the tension was already palpable. A murder meant another good forty-eight hours without sleep for all of them. The fact that she was being called upon to draw up a profile said that they had no suspects, and Wayne had likely picked up on that. It was a reality that still left her sore—despite her assistance with the Bleeder case, she wasn’t called upon for assistance as frequently as she _could_ be. Oh, well. There was little to be done about it. Marasi hovered toward the back of the room, pen poised over her notebook; Wayne leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, almost as expectant as her.

“Wait, what is he doing here?” One of the field constables, a man with a nasal voice and a blotchy, bloated face, piped up. Eyes turned to Wayne. He did not react, and some of the attention turned to Marasi, who prickled. Just because she knew the man didn’t make her responsible for him. Before either of them could formulate an answer, however, the staff sergeant cleared his throat.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “we may be able to use his knowledge. It’d be better if we had Lord Waxillium, but as I understand it, he’s unavailable?” The sergeant phrased it as a question and directed it at Wayne; Marasi caught the slightest downturn of Wayne’s mouth and she stepped in quickly.

“That is correct, sir, but as you said, I’m sure Wayne is more than capable.”

“Right.” Sergeant Morveau turned his attention back to the task at hand. “A body was found this morning in our octant. The victim was a Lord Cardwyn Hastings, a fifty-eight year old industrialist. At around eight o’clock this morning, his wife arrived home from a trip to the country and found Hastings’ study closed and locked. He was nowhere else in the house, and would not respond to her calls. He had the only key to the study, so first responders knocked down the door and reported Hastings sitting at his desk, dead. Cause of death was a shot to the head. There was a revolver in his hand and one of the chambers was missing a bullet.” A murmur skittered through the ranks of constables, confusion clearly settling over them. Why was a suicide being treated as a homicide? “Constables on scene reported an overwhelming scent of marewill in the room, and painted on the wall in red letters was the word ‘Liars.’”

Marasi’s pen worked furiously while she listened to the rest of the report. Hastings had already been dead for a number of hours before his body was found; since the wife had been out of town, she had a solid alibi. There was no suicide note, and no recent family or work problems posed a likelihood for suicide. However, Hastings had any number of enemies—he trod on many toes in the maintenance of his factories.

Marasi knew that in all criminal cases, homicides particularly, the victim and the modus operandi told a story about the offender. Profiling an actual offender was an imprecise art, subject to many errors, but drawing up a victim profile could be far more enlightening, if done right.

Questions followed the official report, and Wayne fidgeted through the brainstorming session. Once the formalities had been worked out, Morveau turned his attention to Marasi. “Anything to add, Colms?”

She nodded thoughtfully. “The scent of marewill in particular stands out to me. The victim was healthy and had not been exhibiting any unusual behaviour prior to his death, so suicide has already been more or less ruled out.” There were a few perplexing things about the case—locked door, message on the wall, an apparent suicide. “No-one on the premises saw anyone strange coming or going, and it wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume that the sole purpose of the marewill would be to mask any telling scents from the Tineye unit. However, there is the matter of the word painted on the wall. It’s a message meant for whoever found it… in this case, us. Why marewill in particular? The murderer could have chosen any powerful scent, and the smell of decay would already have hampered a Tineye’s senses.”

“If the murderer is leaving messages for us, this wasn’t a personal crime,” Morveau concluded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “We’ll keep that in mind. For now, we need to cover all of our bases. Rennis and Evarn, I want you to continue questioning the staff. I want to know exactly when and where they were last night. Trelvin, go check in with Lady Hastings. We need her official statement.” Morveau continued to assign tasks to the rest of the force. He was in the middle of telling Marasi to continue working the profile and to compile a list of Hastings’ enemies when Wayne stretched, straightened his hat, and began sauntering toward the door. “Excuse me— where do you think you’re going?”

“Where d’you think? Somebody’s gotta check the rustin’ crime scene. You lot probably missed all the good stuff.” Wayne barely missed a beat. He didn’t even wait to hear Morveau’s protests before he was halfway out of the constabulary.

“Harmony’s forearms! Lieutenant, go make sure he doesn’t stomp all over our crime scene!”

Marasi had very little choice but to hurry after Wayne as she tucked her notebook into her uniform. More and more, she was beginning to feel like a sort of babysitter for both Wax and Wayne. This was not the job she signed up for. 

“We can take the automobile,” she offered, hurrying her pace to match his. He perked up, a familiar glint sparking in his eyes. “And no, you _cannot_ drive.” She had never seen him behind the wheel of an automobile, and wasn’t sure she ever wanted to. As she directed him to the vehicle, she diverted his attention. “What do you think?”

“I gotta get me one of these motorcars.”

“No, about the case.” Of course, she suspected he already knew, judging by the small, secretive curve of his lips. Sometimes, she was convinced it was a sort of test, like he had done with Wax to see if he would notice the cheating. How much could he get away with, and how much would she catch?

“Ain’t nothin’ you ain’t already said. Fellow like that’s got a lotta enemies. Might be right 'bout the message on the wall, though. That’s real suspicious.”

Marasi got in on the driver’s side and fired up the ignition. Wayne made himself comfortable, stretching out in the passenger’s seat. “Might have more murders like this soon,” he commented.

“What makes you say that?”

Wayne shrugged. “Got a hunch, ’s all,” he said, and did not elaborate further.

Marasi weaved through the clutter of slow-moving carriages, having to stop occasionally as a pedestrian hurried across the cobbled streets. Since beginning to spend more time with Wayne, she believed she understood him better, but in no way did she understand him fully. Every time she thought she might be getting close, there was another facet that he revealed and she was left just as lost as she started.

Now, he was pressed up against the side of the motorcar, one hand clasping his hat to his head. By now, there usually would have been a plethora of quips and a handful of innuendoes. Something was off. “How _is_ Wax doing?” She asked finally.

“He’s…” Wayne paused. “He’s a bit off his copper. He’ll bounce back. Always does.”

He sounded convinced, but his demeanour did not brighten. The words that went unsaid were that Wax’s loss was a blow to the two of them, too. It was familiar for them to look up to Wax in bad situations. Without him, there was a perceptible gap, like a portrait with its subject cut out. Maybe he wouldn’t bounce back. Not for the first time, Marasi wondered at how Wayne occupied his time when he wasn’t running around with Wax. “I don’t see him much,” Wayne finally confessed. “He keeps the curtains drawn most days. This ain’t what it was like the first time.”

_The first time._ Marasi couldn’t blame Wax—most people only killed their wife once.

“It will take time,” she said. “But don’t you worry, I’m sure you’re doing a terrific job of terrorizing criminals on your own.”

This pulled a smile out of him. “Can’t be lazy about it no more,” he sighed dramatically. “’S alright. I’m used to doing all the heavy lifting. ’S why I’m so strong.”

“Yes, from bearing the weight of everyone else’s workload. Makes sense,” she agreed wryly.

“So… how fast can this thing go again?”

She really shouldn’t humour him. But, Marasi pressed her lips together in a grin. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

The remainder of the drive there went quickly, and she pulled up in front of the Hastings manor. There were already a collection of carriages out front, and one of the constables was talking to a man she presumed to be the gardener. Together, she and Wayne headed up to the front doors, assured one of the constables keeping the area on lockdown that they were sent by Morveau, and went inside. 

Hastings was _rich._ That much was apparent from the sweeping onyx staircase and marbled flooring. Embellishments and furnishing overwhelmed the foyer to the point where Marasi wasn’t certain what to focus on. Surviving descriptions of Elendel before the Catacendre described houses just like this one. Comparatively, her father’s manor was modest. 

Beside Marasi, Wayne whistled. 

“Agreed,” she murmured. Field constable Trelvin led the recently-widowed Lady Hastings down the stairs—she clutched at the banister for support, sniffling pitifully. Marasi took a moment to assess the woman. Lady Hastings was younger than expected, possibly nearing her mid to late thirties. There wasn’t a streak of white in her hair, and the lines on her face were few. _Well,_ Marasi thought. _It’s not exactly uncommon for a younger woman to marry an older man for money._ She didn’t let herself linger on the thought. No breakfast and an early morning did not make for the best mood. 

“Colms,” Trelvin addressed her. He was a senior constable who had been a part of the force for many years. Despite being offered a number of cushier positions, he had remained a detective for over two decades. Trelvin was one of the ones Marasi liked. Although he was a little old fashioned and did not like all of her methods, she appreciated how fairly he treated her; unusual, in one of the old guard. “I’m escorting Lady Hastings to the precinct to get her statement. I thought you’d be posted on that profile.”

“I was, sir,” Marasi nodded. “Wayne is here to look at the crime scene. I was sent to observe.” She tiptoed around the final word. ‘Observe’ was rather a delicate way of putting ‘I was sent to make sure we don’t have to arrest one of our assets.’ Trelvin seemed to understand, judging from the look he gave her, but he just nodded and grunted in what sounded like assent. 

“Go on up, then. You won’t be able to miss it.”

They ascended the stairs and found the office door hanging precariously on its hinges. From the room wafted an overpowering scent of marewill flowers. Judging from the lack of underlying smells, the body had not yet begun to decay, which was a small relief.

Pressing a handkerchief over her nose, Marasi followed Wayne through the door. Inside the study, the smell was far more overwhelming, though a window had been cracked to let fresh air in. She began to take note of the surroundings while Wayne began to pace the edge of the room, occasionally ducking down to look at something, presumably the shelves of books that lined the office. 

The only wall not covered with bookcases was the one behind the desk. It had been painted with red letters, like the report said. The window locked from the inside, and showed no signs of tampering, and the drop to the ground was considerable. A Coinshot or Pewterarm would barely be slowed down at all, but the window looked onto the street. How would someone have gotten out, closed the window, and gotten away without being seen? Marasi examined the window frame for any metals that a Coinshot or Lurcher could have used to their advantage and found nothing. 

There didn’t seem to be any other ways to get in or out, and she doubted that—

“Here!” Wayne called triumphantly, startling Marasi. She turned to ask what he had found, and saw him digging a bottle of some sort of alcoholic drink out of the desk. 

“Wayne!” 

“Oh, sorry, mate.” He offered the bottle in her direction. “You want the first go?”

“Absolutely not. Put that back!” She crossed her arms and he shrugged, replacing the bottle back in the desk drawer.

“Wasn’t the good stuff, anyway. What kinda man doesn’t have a decent liquor cabinet in his office? Ain’t natural. How else’re you s’posed to get through all this paperwork?” Maybe he had a point there. Wayne promptly began patting down Lord Hastings’ pockets; Marasi glanced away so she could at least feign ignorance later and it wouldn’t be a _complete_ lie. After all, she couldn’t exactly fault him for his methods—while it hadn’t exactly been patting down a dead man, searching through Governor Innate’s correspondence had been the very same brand of illegal activity. “Found something,” Wayne said.

Marasi looked up to see him holding a key. He tossed it to her, and she checked it in the keyhole. It was a match. Could someone have made a copy? If one of them had reason to kill him… but no, the study could only be locked from the inside. 

Locked room mysteries were so exciting in books, but in reality they were a damn annoyance. Wayne hadn’t stopped checking the dead man for clues, but he finally held something else up: a mostly-wilted marewill flower.

Frowning, Marasi joined him behind the desk. “I’ve seen this sort of thing before,” she said. “This is a signature, isn’t it? If we don’t find this person soon, they’re going to strike again.”

Wayne pocketed the bottle of rum from the desk and grinned. “You actually make a pretty good sidekick. Scone?” He offered her a battered scone that looked seconds away from crumbling onto the rug. Contrary to logic, her stomach growled again in a more determined reminder that she _still_ hadn’t eaten breakfast. 

“To hell with it,” she mumbled, and snatched the scone from him. _If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP me, RIP Lord Hastings, and ultimately, RIP that poor blueberry scone. I, personally, wouldn't trust anything that's been in Wayne's pockets, but who am I to judge? Stay tuned (?) for more murder and hats! 
> 
> Chapter title yoinked from Before the Storm by Shelby Merry.


	2. Shadow Songs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marasi has really good taste in biscuits, Wayne has a future as a makeup artist if this whole lawkeeper thing doesn't work out. Also, Reddi is a Massive Jerk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what I'm doing anymore. Commence the self-indulgence and getting Way Too Passionate about criminology. Also, there are some semi-Wayne POV sections in this, so bear with me. They might get more Waynesque as I progress (and reread the books), but for now you'll have to settle for some weird in-between flickering from my usual narrative voice and Wayne popping in to add his two boxings now and again.
> 
> Also, I edited this on three hours of sleep. I'm so sorry.

The facts of the case were these:

The door to the study had been locked from the inside. There were no other means of entry or exit, and inside the room was a man with a bullet in his head and a gun in his hand, with no motive for suicide. All of the man’s most promising enemies had airtight alibis, and the staff were still being questioned but had little motive to kill their employer.

These were all trifling facts; only one truly mattered.

Wayne had _vastly_ underestimated how boring police work was.

It was all paperwork. Clearance forms, requisition forms, forms that required a detailed account of every time you took a piss—the constabulary had it all. It was no wonder there was so much crime in Elendel when all the conners were busy journaling.

Marasi was frowning over an impressive stack of papers that gave Wayne a headache to look at. Apparently, they were whatever information could be found on each of Hastings’ enemies. The constables seemed to indicate it wasn’t much, but Wayne was the one helping tote them all from Marasi’s desk at the precinct to her own flat, and he would rusting beg to differ.

He’d thought that after she was kicked out to get some sleep, she might get to doing some _real_ work, so he had stuck around at her invitation. All she had said was, “You’re welcome to help me, but I’ll be quite focused, so I’m afraid I won’t be very entertaining.” With Wax, that still meant there was a chance of finding his good brandy, and there was always good fun in tormenting the new butler.

No butler at Marasi’s flat, which was equal measures disappointing and a relief. No brandy, either, as far as he could tell, which was just rustin’ ridiculous. He found some wine that he could verify was tasteful but cheap, but unless she had the good stuff hidden really well, he was going to have to show her what a proper liquor cabinet looked like. Couldn’t let a friend get away with ignorance to the things that mattered most in life. 

Still, it wasn’t a total loss. It was with some small interest that he investigated her flat. A house was a lot like a hat in some ways. If it fit right, it could tell you about the person who owned it. 

Marasi wasn’t quite moved into her flat yet—he wasn’t sure if she had been living with her father while she was in school, or if she’d been in the University dormitories. Judging by how much she blushed, it was probably the second one. Either way, there were some odd spaces in her place that were still empty or just slightly too cluttered, and when she saw he had noticed, she’d rattle off a reason: “I have a small clock from my mother I keep meaning to put there,” or, “Don’t mind the mess! Those are just some essays from school. I wanted to reference some of the statistics I’d used.”

Some of the pieces still fitting together; organized, but still being sorted.

It was a nice place, though. It was small and relatively modest, had just enough clutter to be properly homey. Best yet, she had told him he should help himself to the pantry.

“That ain’t gonna help, you know,” he called as he rummaged through the shelves. Were those biscuits drizzled with chocolate?

Upon further examination of the shelves’ contents, he concluded that Marasi _really_ liked chocolate. In that case, she probably wouldn’t mind if he ate a few of her biscuits. He dumped the entire contents of the package onto a plate he found in the cupboards. 

“Even if the flower and the message are a signature, that doesn’t discount one of Hastings’ enemies as the murderer.” Her voice came through muffled, both by the walls separating the kitchen from the living room, and, by the sounds of it, from speaking around the pen tip in her mouth. She didn’t chew on pens or pencils like some people did, but sort of just rested the tip against her bottom lip when she was concentrating hard on something.

Wayne stuffed one of the biscuits into his mouth and chewed as Marasi kept talking. “Some murderers, if they _do_ go on to kill again, are just looking to recreate the feeling the first victim invoked. That makes the first victim the important one. Besides, you’re far more likely to be killed by someone you know than someone you don’t.”

Rusts, these were good biscuits. Had she really bought them at the general store? Surely she wouldn’t miss them if they were so easy to get.

He wandered back into the living room and almost tripped on a pile of books sitting behind the couch.

“Still a waste of time. It ain’t gonna be one of them.” Marasi made a motion that was similar to the one Wax made when he wanted to be handed something, but there was a sort of grabby motion at the end that Wax lacked. Wayne offered the plate of biscuits. She grabbed _four._

Slouching down onto the chair she’d found him, Wayne plucked up one of the pencils lying on the table. There were papers scattered across the breadth of the table’s surface, and there seemed to be a method to how she had it laid out, but he had no clue what it was.

“I still have to go through them all like they’re suspects,” she said. She glanced up as he began to doodle a stick figure on the corner of the paper nearest him. “No, not that one. I have to give that to the constable-general tomorrow. Here.” Another sheet of paper was placed before him. This one had more empty space. “We can’t afford to get tunnel vision with homicides. Innocent people go to prison over that sort of thing. Or worse, they’re hanged and we never know about it.”

It took a moment for Wayne to realise he’d drawn himself and Wax. 

_Rusts_. He hadn’t realised how little he had to do in Elendel until suddenly Wax wasn’t up for doing much of anything. The weirdest, most uncomfortable part of it was that he was just… blank. Wax wouldn’t react to the jokes or the teasing. Steris received more of a reaction, somehow, and that didn’t sit right with Wayne. It wasn’t even that he was being ignored. Wax just didn’t have the energy to quip back, and that sucked the energy out of Wayne, too. 

His fingers were itching to _do_ something. 

“You should really get some sleep, mate. You look terrible.”

“Thank you, Wayne. You always know the right thing to say to a lady.”

“Long as it doesn’t go to your head. Only room for one ego ‘round here.”

“And whose is that? Yours?” She said it absently, brow puckering in thought as she scanned a broadsheet clipping from one of her files. 

“Wax’s, of course. I’m humble as pie.” Wayne stood up with a sudden motion that might have made her jump a year ago. Now, she continued to scowl at the file. 

She looked exhausted. Constables pulled strange hours, especially when something big happened. It had been nearly forty-eight hours since they were gathered in the briefing room. Marasi had been more than willing to shoulder a heavy workload to give the detectives leeway to focus on the investigation. The constable-general insisted she build the profile, and then sent her home to get some sleep. He still wasn’t letting her use her skills to their full extent.

Looking at her after two full days of filling reports and agonizing over file after file of whatever information could be pulled on Hastings’ enemies, he still couldn’t really blame Reddi. Marasi’s hair had long since sagged out of its usually-neat updo, and the bags under her eyes were heavy enough for a month’s worth of vacation. Her determination was still running strong, somehow. Wayne caught himself yawning now and again even though he had napped on and off during the past forty-eight hours.

Better the case got solved sooner rather than later, else she’d run herself to rust before anything got resolved. Besides, he could feel that itch to do something crawling in his bones. “You need to sleep,” he said. “I’ll bring the morning broadsheet and get you if somethin’ interesting happens.”

This got Marasi’s attention. Her eyes snapped up to him.

“You’re not going to get into trouble without me?” It was phrased like a warning, but there was something with more weight behind it. It sounded… hopeful.

“Me? I ain’t never gotten into no trouble in my life.” Wayne clapped his hat back onto his head.

“That’s a double negative,” she pointed out.

“Triple negative. Point still stands,” he corrected with a grin, tipping the brim of his hat. “But I’ll let it slide this time, ‘cause I’m generous like that.” He left her craning her neck to watch him leave, shaking her head but smiling in amusement.

*** * ***

Marasi’s was a quiet, tidy neighbourhood. Some well-tended apple trees sprouted timidly along the sidewalks, and the houses shrunk, meek and mild, away from the cobblestone streets. Most people might shrug a place like this off, but Wayne knew people and places. If Marasi had been there, she might have spouted some fancy theory about how people were a reflection of the places they lived. Wayne already knew that. A man grew up in a place that housed crooks and killers, he usually became one. A man grew up in a fancy, boring place like this, he grew up fancy and boring. That was just common sense.

The thing most people ignored was that if you lived in a place like this, where it was real nice and quiet and dull, you could hear when people said interesting things, and then you used those things to fill the silence.

He should’ve seen about borrowing one of Marasi’s dresses before leaving—it would’ve made getting information more effective. Unfortunately, if he risked going back and she was already asleep, he _also_ risked her getting affronted and shooting him in the event she woke to find him pawing through her unmentionables. 

Wayne soon found what he was looking for. Whistling a cheerful tune, he approached the broadsheet boy and handed over a boxing (courtesy of Marasi—he’d left a biscuit sitting where the coin had been) in exchange for the morning edition. He perused its contents without really paying attention, far more interested in the conversation going on between the two elderly ladies behind him.

“I have a friend who knows one of the senior constables. They think they might have already found whoever killed Lord Hastings.”

“Thank Harmony. Who do they think did it?”

“The gardener. He was the only one there who didn’t have an alibi. Who else could it be?”

Now, that was just downright stupid. Nobody could be dumb enough to pull off the perfect locked-room murder only to sit around outside twiddling his thumbs, waiting for the conners to catch you without a good alibi. It wasn’t the gardener, and they all had to know it. Even _they_ couldn’t be that desperate for leads.

Wayne walked down to the constabulary, deciding he’d let Marasi sleep while he sorted this out. Maybe he’d dangle the prospect of a good mystery in front of Wax’s face later, see if that did anything. After all, it’d be real thoughtless to solve an actual locked-room mystery all by himself.

At this time in the morning, the constabulary was always at its busiest. Constables rushed around, or congregated by a coworker’s desk to run over case facts. Most of them were waiting in a line to get a cup of tea, faces all lined with the same evidence of sleep deprivation. 

Reddi and Staff Sergeant Morveau were talking in the constable-general’s office, their tones hushed. Going by the heavy frowns on their faces, it wasn’t anything good.

“‘Ello, gents.” Wayne strode right in, ignoring their glares. “I hear you’re ‘bout to arrest the wrong man.”

“How could you— I hardly see how you would know anything about it. Do you have some insight that we don’t?” Reddi was the sort who could deal with getting knocked down a peg or nine. From what he’d seen, Marasi would usually shoot his nonsense down on the spot, but she wasn’t there. Fortunately, Wayne specialised in nonsense, so he knew it when he saw it.

“Yeah, and it’s that I ain’t an imbecile.” Imbecile. There was a good word. Nice and slick and smart-sounding. “Pinning it on the gardener? You can’t really think it’s him.”

They looked baffled. “Why do you say the gardener isn’t our man?”

“Can I see ‘im?”

“The gardener? N—”

“Right, well, I just thought you’d…” Wayne cleared his throat and imitated the staff sergeant’s voice. “‘Be able to use my knowledge.’ Seein’ as I’m a genius and all that.” The sergeant made a face. They got real uncomfortable when he used their own voices on them.

They relented eventually, but refused to let Wayne actually talk to the gardener. Wayne could still tell immediately that something was wrong. He definitely couldn’t be the killer. “Not him, like I said.”

The constable-general bristled and opened his mouth, presumably to ask for something ridiculous like ‘evidence’ or ‘another plausible suspect.’ “You can keep him in custody for a few more hours, yeah?”

Morveau nodded and checked his pocket watch. “We didn’t take him into custody right away. We have him for another fifteen hours before we have to charge him or let him go.”

Looking at the poor bastard now, Wayne wouldn’t be surprised if they could—and would try to—keep him for considerably longer. Best to sort this out as soon as possible, then. Tiredness chafed at him, a reminder that even though he had managed to fit some sleep in, he could still do with a nap. That would have to wait.

“Be back in twelve. Don’t arrest him ’til I get back.”

He was back out the door before the constables had time to come up with too many questions.

*** * ***

Marasi woke up twelve hours later and rolled out of bed with the utmost reluctance. Ideally, she would have liked another twelve hours of sleep, but that wasn’t feasible with a killer on the loose. Especially if the target was a very high-profile man and they had no promising suspects or leads, panics were known to happen amidst the upper class. She wouldn’t have been surprised to find that her father had contacted the constabulary with a series of questions.

Groaning, Marasi ran her fingers through her hair, hand catching on a few tangles. It was a wonder she’d managed to get herself into a nightgown and clamber into bed at all.

After fumbling her way into a freshly-pressed uniform and downing a scalding cup of tea, she checked her front doorstep. Both the morning and the evening broadsheets were waiting there for her, likely thanks to Wayne, and there was a note attached to her door. This was hastily scrawled in Wayne’s frankly atrocious writing, and she squinted at it, still too tired to play deciphering games.

The letter was something to the effect of ‘Come to the precinct as soon as possible, your coworkers are rusting idiots,’ so Marasi hurried, taking the broadsheets to scan along the way. The evening edition mentioned that a suspect was in police custody, and Wayne had drawn an arrow from the word ‘suspect’ to a word he’d scribbled into the margin. ‘Gardener.’

Marasi didn’t know who the murderer was, but she knew it _wasn’t_ the gardener. 

When she walked into the precinct, Wayne was already there, arms crossed as Reddi argued with him. Or rather, _tried_ to argue with him. It was not easy to get into an argument with the other man—he had an infuriating ability to refute any well-concocted logical points with his own special brand of nonsense, and he had honed that ability to the point where it was just as impressive as it was frustrating. 

Both men actually perked up upon seeing Marasi, so she steeled herself for the worst. 

“Will you talk some sense into this idiot?” Reddi sounded exasperated. “We have two hours to either let our suspect go or charge him, and he has no evidence to back up his claim that we have the wrong guy.”

“Well, it ain’t the gardener, and you know it.”

Marasi sighed. “May I speak with him?”

“He hasn’t given us anything. What makes you think you’ll be able to?”

“You ever seen a guy around a pretty lady?” Wayne asked Reddi. “I reckon he’d sell out his own mama just to keep her around for a few minutes.”

It was a bit of a back-handed way to help, but Reddi appeared to consider it. “Fine. Ten minutes, and that’s all.” 

Wayne grabbed Marasi’s arm and began hauling her in the direction of the interview rooms without waiting for further instruction. “Too bad you didn’t get to do your face all nice,” he said. “But I gotta work with what I’m given. Hang on. I’ve got some lip paints to distract from the rest of…” He made a vague motion toward Marasi’s entire face.

“You have such a way with words.” Marasi watched as he pulled a tin and a brush from one of the pockets inside his duster. In all honesty, she wasn’t even remotely surprised by his faintly insulting half-compliments anymore. He looked half ready to apply the lipstick _for_ her, but she snatched the brush from him and applied it herself in a few quick motions. “Better?”

“Maybe I better do it.”

“Like hell,” she said, shoving the lipstick back at him with a little more ferocity than she initially intended. It only took her a moment to compose herself. She squared her shoulders, smoothed her face into something a little more pleasant, and walked into the room.

The gardener looked up at her; it took a moment for his gaze to focus. It took her only a few short seconds to size him up—he wore plain, comfortable-looking clothes. He was a simple-looking man with sandy blond hair that looked like he had been running his hands through it quite frequently over the past hours. The expression on his face was confused, but open. He seemed nervous, but not unreasonably so. He was, after all, being held as a suspect in a murder investigation. 

Strangely, he hadn’t asked for an attorney. “Wil?” Marasi smiled at him and moved her chair so she would be sitting diagonally from him rather than directly across. “I’m Marasi Colms. I’d like to ask you a few questions, is that alright?”

He nodded. She held up her notebook and pencil. “I may have to take some notes, but it’s only for my own reference later. Are you alright with this?” He nodded again. “Right. How long have you worked for Lord Hastings?”

Wil paused, tilted his head. Then, he counted to himself on his fingers. Marasi had a sinking feeling in her stomach. “Th-three years. Ma’am.”

“And can you tell me what you were doing on the night he died?”

His face crumpled. He nodded, but did not elaborate. Leaning forward a little, Marasi mirrored the way he was angled toward her, and she smiled encouragingly, softening her voice. “What were you doing, Wil? It’s alright, you can tell me. I’m not here to get you in trouble, I just want to know what happened.”

*** * ***

Seven minutes later, Marasi stepped out of the interviewing room and closed the doorquietly behind her. Her face was a mask of serenity, but it was too smooth, the way elastic pulled too taut before it snapped. Thanks to her patient questions, he babbled far more than he had to the other constables, but it was just as Wayne suspected; most would’ve called the gardener slow-witted or something even more unpleasant. He’d been smart enough—or scared enough—to clam up, but time in custody wore at a person. If Marasi had asked, he probably would have confessed right then and there, even though he barely knew a murder had happened. 

Wayne trailed Marasi as she stormed her way to Reddi’s office; though she wasn’t a woman with enormous presence, constables clamoured to clear out of her way. There might as well have been a cape of thunderclouds streaming from her shoulders, and each of her rapid footsteps caused earthquakes. When she closed the door to Reddi’s office, Wayne managed to duck inside before she unleashed the storm.

Her voice remained level, but there was something sharp snapping across her consonants, drawing her vowels thin. “Let him go,” she said, speaking in the way a bow sawed across violin strings and pulled out notes that quivered in the air and made your skin prickle. “He’s not the murderer and you damn well know it.”

“Do you have any evi—”

“We are _better_ than this,” she snapped with vitriol Wayne didn’t know she possessed. When she spoke again, it was a low hiss. “The man sitting in there is…”—she hesitated,briefly tripping over the right word to use—“He’s… _simple_ , and you know that. Just because he’s an easy target doesn’t mean he’s the right one. He hadn’t even asked for an attorney! People like him go to jail and worse without even fully knowing what’s happening, and I will _not_ let that happen to this man just because you need a quick, easy answer.”

“You’re not the one who’s got the entire noble community breathing down your neck, Lieutenant. Just giving them someone else to point the finger at gets them off our backs while we do real work.”

“And people like Wil suffer for it! He wasn’t anywhere near the crime scene, and he couldn’t have staged the murder. You have no evidence. You have to let him go.” There was an emphasis on the last sentence that held the implication of something else. 

That implication, whatever it was, crackled between the two of them, and Reddi was the first to relent. “You’d better find me a suspect soon, Colms.”

“I will. If _you_ don’t pull this nonsense again. Do I have permission to interview the rest of the staff and canvass the neighbourhood?”

“Fine,” Reddi sighed, clearly just wanting to get her out of his hair.

She spun on her heel and marched right back out again, stopping by her desk to gather up a few things and ask Morveau a handful of questions. Before dragging Wayne out of the precinct, she also stopped in the interviewing rooms to personally apologize to the gardener and let him know he was free to go.

When they finally got out to the automobile, it was evident that she was still fuming. The car lurched forward as Marasi stomped on the gas. Wayne wisely elected to stay quiet for once, sensing that if he said the wrong thing, she might very well bite his head off. Normally, he didn’t mind a bit of biting, but among the list of things he’d prefer to not have to regrow, a head was one of them.

He fidgeted in the relative silence—the automobile’s engine roared. Halfway there, her anger had calmed, and she finally spoke, her voice back at its usual, even cadence. “Is that why you left the note? You knew they’d pin it on the gardener just because he had no means of defending himself?”

Wayne shrugged. “It was pretty obvious it wasn’t him. Poor git had no idea how to answer the questions they were askin’. Woulda been real easy to get ‘im to confess to a crime what he didn’t do.”

“You should have come to get me,” she said. It wasn’t scathing or accusatory; she wasn’t upset at him, but rather with her fellow constables. Her lips—still bright red—thinned into a line. “It’s not right. He might not even have been charged in the end, but…” Marasi trailed off. “He had no idea what was going on, Wayne. I don’t even think it’s sunk in for him that his employer is dead.”

“Do they really want to pin it on someone so bad?”

“No,” Marasi sighed. “It’s all politics. When someone like Lord Hastings gets killed, there’s a lot of pressure from the upper class to get it solved right away. The longer a case like this is left open, the less the Senate wants to fund the constabulary. We’re already stretched thin enough as it is. Most wouldn’t actually place a murder charge on an innocent man on purpose, but it’s not exactly an unusual tactic—just point the media in some other direction to satisfy the masses until we can find some actual leads.”

It made a sick sort of sense. “Well then,” Wayne said, “guess we just gotta find the killer, then. Can’t be too hard. All we gotta do is solve the perfect murder.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter raises a few really important questions. Were Wax and Wayne holding hands in Wayne's doodle? What did Wayne MEAN by 'Maybe I better do it?' Was he referring to the lipstick, the interview, or wearing the lipstick WHILE doing the interview? Why does Marasi account for exactly 100% of the occurrences of the word "hell" in this fic so far? (We are two for two, if you were wondering.)


	3. Peace And I Are Strangers Grown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunt continues. A butler gets annoyed, Marasi does some questioning, Wax shows up, and the chocolate-covered biscuits return.
> 
> I haven't edited this at all. I'm so sorry.

“There’s one question I keep coming back to,” Marasi said, her fingers idly trailing over the steering wheel. They were stopped at an intersection, trapped behind a confusion of carriages and automobiles. There had been some sort of accident on the road, and a harried constable was attempting to wrangle the chaos into something resembling order.

“Aw, hell, I’m sorry.” An apologetic look crossed Wayne’s face. “I’m a taken man. Flattered, though.”

Marasi shot him a flat look. “My question is, how come none of the staff reported hearing gunfire? Wil said he didn’t hear a thing, but even if he was working outside, he should have heard _something._ ”

“Where were the others? The gardener was working just under the window where Hastings got shot, yeah?”

“Yes. There were two maids on duty, the butler, the housekeeper, and the cook. The maids were in the kitchen with the cook, and the butler was meeting with the housekeeper. None of them reported hearing anything, though they certainly should have.”

“Why weren’t there more? Wax’s got any number of servants running around all the time, and Ladrian Mansion’s not half as big as Hastings’ place.”

“Some were on vacation. Looking at his accounts, however, I can tell you that a fair number of them quit.”

“Mistreatment?”

Marasi nodded. “Hastings was cutting their salaries, or outright cheating them. It isn’t that he needed to do it, either. He had plenty of income, but he just wanted more in his pocket. I got a look at Wil’s income. He was barely making enough to get by.” The disgust seeped through her tone. “I don’t think he knew it, either.”

“News on the street’s that Hastings got what was coming for him. They’re calling him a robber baron. Found a few workers from his factories complaining about the working conditions and poor wages.”

“Is that where you were the past twelve hours?” Wayne nodded. “What else did you hear?”

“Bloke was a real bad alloy. Only cares about how much is goin’ into his coffers. Could be the staff set it all up. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“If that’s the case, it’s only a matter of applying the right pressure until one of them cracks. That’s the problem with plans like that—you only need to find the rusted link and push.”

“Still don’t explain the gardener not hearin’ anything, though,” Wayne mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “He was confused by everything that was going on, barely even knew a murder had happened. Doubt he’d lie about hearing a gunshot. How good are you at interrogations?”

“Not as good as I’d like to admit,” Marasi conceded. She was getting better, but as Wayne had probably already figured, she was usually only brought into the interviewing rooms when they needed a more delicate touch. In court, she was perfectly capable of ruthless questioning, but in the constabulary, there were plenty of wonderful investigators on the force who could do a far better job of questioning suspects. 

A few more moments passed in silence as the exhausted constable finally got the traffic flowing. Marasi shifted the throttle forward, easing the motorcar back into motion. “Wayne?”

“Yeah?”

“How many cases did you have like this back in the Roughs? Where you know that the murderer might not have been… well, _wrong_ , exactly, and the victim was an awful person?”

A crease formed between Wayne’s brows. Briefly, Marasi wondered if he was thinking about how he had come to work with Wax. But, she remembered his haunted expression in the abandoned warehouse. When he told her about killing the bookkeeper, he had made it clear that in his eyes, he _was_ in the wrong. 

“More common than you’d think.” He leaned his head back against the headrest. “Not a lot like this one, but we got a lot of kids or wives shooting the men who’d abused ‘em for years. Otherwise? There was this one guy who shot this right _git_ up in Callingfale. The victim was buying up all the wells and bleeding the entire town dry just to make himself richer.”

“What did you do with the murderer?”

“He confessed right away, showed us the murder weapon and everything. We had to hang him. Ain’t much else you can do in the Roughs.”

That unsettled Marasi. Once, she had thought that going to the Roughs would be exciting. Her expectations had admittedly been childish, but now she wondered at how well she would be suited for an environment like that. Now, she saw the problems inherent with a system where a lawman was judge, jury, and executioner. Elendel had legislation that was designed not only to protect the people from criminals, but from their own justice system. 

“Did you ever wonder if you were making the right choice in situations like that?”

“All the time.”

She wondered what it might have been like for him, a young boy of sixteen, to grow up in a world like that and know that he had once been waiting for the hangman’s noose, too. That sort of thing gave a person perspective, perspective that Wax didn’t have. 

The Hastings estate was eerily quiet without the multitudes of constables filtering in and out of the gilded double doors. First, Wayne and Marasi questioned the neighbours, but there was little to be found. Hastings’ estate was far enough for their neighbours that most, if they heard anything at all, thought nothing of it.

“Come to think of it, I did hear something that night,” one elderly woman mused, tapping her chin. “A loud bang. I think it came from the direction of the Hastings place.”

“Why didn’t you alert the constabulary?” Marasi trained her annoyance. It wouldn’t do to snap at a civilian. She hoped that Wayne wouldn’t pick up on the strain in her voice, but judging by the faint snort he gave, he did, the bastard.

“Well, I didn’t think anything of it, dear.” The woman’s voice adopted a faintly condescending tone. “Nothing bad ever happens in this neighbourhood.”

  _Of course not,_ Marasi thought bitterly. _Because you’re wealthy and influential, and that is your safety net. Meanwhile, innocent people live in poverty and risk being victimized because they weren’t born lucky enough to have the privilege you do._

She forced a smile, but blessedly, Wayne interrupted before she could ask her questions. “What time do you reckon you heard the noise?” He eased up on the Roughs accent. 

“I’d say it was around, oh… probably ten in the evening?”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Would you be willing to make a statement on that, ma’am?”

*** * ***

It was a little more difficult to get in to question the staff, but at some insistence, they were allowed to question everyone. The butler was last, and he told them that he recalled hearing a loud noise, but when he went to investigate the commotion, the maid admitted to dropping a large metal pot. It corroborated with the story the rest of the staff told.

“It was around ten o’clock when I heard the commotion, and I went to the kitchen to see what it was about. Elisa claimed, as I said in my earlier statement, that she dropped a pot.”

“And you didn’t think to check on your employer at any point? He was locked in his study the entire night, and his wife was the one to find he was still there in the morning. How do you explain that?” Marasi did not look impressed.

The butler bristled. Butlers were a weird lot, figured Wayne. They always seemed like they knew too much. Wayne didn’t trust people like that. He made a habit of knowing as little as possible.

“If you’re implying I had anything to do with this, you are mistaken,” the butler said.

“I am not implying anything, sir. Allow me to rephrase. Is it unusual for Lord Hastings to confine himself to his study until morning?”

“No, not that long,” he admitted, looking displeased.

“Can you tell us about his usual nighttime routine?”

“At around eight o’clock, he often locks himself in his study to go over important business correspondence. Usually, he stays there for two to three hours until he decides to retire to bed.”

“And then? I understand you have been functioning as Lord Hastings’ valet. Did you help prepare him for sleep?” 

Neither Marasi nor the butler appeared to think anything of her question, but Wayne had to question the sheer ridiculousness of rich folk in the city. In the Roughs, a man could (usually) dress and undress himself without the help of a butler. Well, to be fair, sometimes the undressing part could be done with some help, but he didn’t think that was limited just to the Roughs or else Elendel had an entire population to account for.

“Yes, I do,” the butler said, causing Wayne to shake his head.

“And you would do the same in the mornings?”

“Yes,” he said begrudgingly. “But that night, I did not see him after he went to his study. He sought me out and told me he was not to be disturbed.”

“Is that unusual?”

“Not particularly. When he has important business deals, he will work later. He was about to purchase a factory from Lord Daigny, so I expect he was busy.”

Marasi nodded, frowning slightly. She’d mentioned the deal to Wayne, but he didn’t think it had anything to do with Hastings’ death. Murders were like jigsaw puzzles. You just had to have the right pieces and put them together right. The factory didn’t fit. 

“Can you explain to us why you didn’t check on him in the morning?”

“Lady Hastings returned home far earlier than anticipated. It was around seven o’clock in the morning when she arrived. Lord Hastings does not wake up until eight.”

“Did you have any reason to see Lord Hastings between eight in the evening and eight in the morning on the night he died?”

“No, I did not.”

“I was led to believe that you were acting as his valet and waited upon him before he retired to bed.”

The butler paused, a crease forming in his brow. Wayne tried not to grin. Marasi made a good constable, but he could see how she would have been a successful prosecutor, too. She was wasted at a desk job.

“Pardon me, constable, but this is beginning to sound like an interrogation.”

“I’m just trying to get the facts straight. Did you think it was unusual that he did not want you to wait on him the night he died?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t think he would want me to interrupt.”

“Interrupt what?”

The butler was becoming fidgety, his eyes roving between Wayne and Marasi. Wayne crossed his arms and gave an impressive frown.

“His work, of course. It had been a long week for Lord Hastings. I simply figured he wouldn’t want to be bothered.”

“I see. Was anyone else supposed to be on the premises that night?”

“No, only those I mentioned in my earlier statement.”

“Did you see anyone else on the premises that night? Anyone who didn’t belong there?”

“No, I most certainly did not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to insist on speaking to an attorney if you are going to continue asking me questions.”

“No need,” Marasi said, snapping her notebook closed. Wayne had noticed that she had not actually been taking notes. She smiled and straightened the jacket of her uniform. “I think we have what we need for now. Thank you, sir. We may call on you in court to testify, if that is agreeable to you. We’ll be in touch.”

Wayne followed hot on her heels as she made straight for the motorcar.

“Someone’s lyin’,” he commented. “That was a real sudden denial if you ask me. Think it’s him, or he’s protecting the actual killer?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll ask Reddi to pull him in for more questioning. He wasn’t about to give us anything more.” She sat in the driver’s seat and immediately set to scribbling furiously in her notebook. The speed her pencil was moving at did funny things to her handwriting. Normally, it was loopy and neat, all the vowels nicely rounded and all the consonants crisp, precise. Like the way she talked. Her hurried writing was a lot more jagged, but at least it was a lot more legible than Wax’s writing when _he_ was rushing.

Wayne squinted at her writing for a few more moments. “You’re really just gonna let him handle this after what happened with the gardener?”

With a sigh, Marasi paused to look up at him. “What else would you suggest? I can’t just run around shooting everyone who seems suspicious.”

“Aw, mate, you don’t have to shoot ‘em. Just punching ‘em a bit should do the trick.”

She always looked at him like that: eyes scrunched up all funny, a mystery she just couldn’t piece together right. Probably trying to decide if he was joking or not. He stared back as guilelessly he could muster. “But speakin’ of shooting things, what say we pop by Wax’s place? See if he wants to _weigh_ in?”

“That was just about the worst pun I’ve ever heard.”

“Ah, but ‘just about’ ain’t the same thing as ‘definitely.’”

“No, that position goes to the one you dropped when we first met. Something about Wax being ‘suitable’ because he was wearing a suit?”

“You remembered!” Wayne grinned at her; she rolled her eyes and stuffed her little notebook into her pocket.

*** * ***

Sixteen Ladrian Place _felt_ like it had a shadow looming over it. A part of it may have been Marasi’s expectation toward what lay inside, a part of it may have been the lack of a telltale glow from the upper floor. She followed Wayne around to the back, where he opened the door and held it open for her.

“Wayne,” she hissed. “Are we supposed to be going in this way?”

“I do this all the time,” he assured her. “Best way to avoid the butler.”

Oh, excellent. So if they did happen to run into the butler along the way, whatever remained of her decorum would be promptly crushed into smithereens. She followed him up a darkened stairway, feeling her way in front of her so as not to trip. Wayne stopped at a closed door—there was the faint, warm flicker of firelight ebbing from beneath it. 

He turned back to her, apologetic. “You might want to stay here for a minute while I check on him.” Marasi nodded and he disappeared into the room. Although she had no reason to be nervous, she rubbed her hands together anxiously as she waited for Wayne to reappear. She had seen Wax numerous times since taking Bleeder down, but he was… different. Still the same person, yes, but how she imagined he might have been after Lessie died the first time.

Hushed voices muttered from inside the room. It was tempting to strain to listen, but she reined herself in and waited. Before long, the door creaked back open and Wayne let her in. 

Extensive training and a lifetime of being told to shut up and simply observe had taught Marasi to be perceptive. Looking around the room, it was difficult to ignore all the little things that anyone else might have ignored. Though it was not messy, a thin layer of dust collected on the electric lamps. Papers cluttered every available surface, but the room still did not look lived-in. The only things she could see lying around were house ledgers, bank statements, records of employment. Marasi did not speak to Steris terribly often, but she knew that Wax had delved fully back into his duties as the head of House Ladrian.

Wax himself sat in the chair near the fireplace, a small notebook clasped in one hand, which he closed and set in his lap when Marasi entered. When he looked up at her, he did not have a smile to spare. Creases lined his eyes, more noticeable in the firelight that danced on his face. The age previously lifted from him after returning to Elendel had returned tenfold—he looked much older, and the bags under his eyes betrayed his exhaustion.

Once, she had seen him as a predator, a beast with sharp claws and teeth like titanium. Seeing him in such a sorry state was disconcerting, like seeing a once-proud animal caged and ill.

He greeted her with a nod and indicated she should sit. “Wayne tells me something interesting has happened at the constabulary.”

“Might be big,” Wayne added excitedly, leaving the timepiece on a desk near the window to sit next to Marasi on the couch. “You know old Hastings? There was a signature left behind at the crime scene and everything. ‘Least, that’s what it seems like.”

Wayne’s interruption gave Marasi time to accustom herself to the uncanny, blank affectation of Wax’s voice. He sounded _empty_ , somehow.

“Are you sure?” He didn’t sound bored, exactly, but he did sound like he wasn’t quite… present. Like his eyes weren’t looking at them, but through them, or like there was some great, unfathomable distance between him and them, and there was something between them in that distance that distracted him.

“We’ve been looking into the staff, because so far they seem the most likely culprits. Wayne is right, though. The scene did seem to be staged, and it is quite like a signature.” Marasi wasn’t certain she agreed that it would guarantee later events, but she did concede that it was an unusual setup.

“Have there been any other murders that fit this pattern?”

“No,” Wayne said, surprising Marasi. She’d thought he wasn’t listening earlier when she rattled off a list of serial killers previously active in Elendel. “But—”

“Then you have no way of knowing unless they strike again.” Wax fingered the edge of the notebook resting on his thigh. “Go back to the basics. It was likely the household staff trying to deflect blame.”

“Wax, this is a _real_ locked-room murder. None of the staff are the genius type. Don’t tell me it don’t eat at you, too. We ain’t ever had one like this before.” Wayne’s eyes were bright, and Marasi felt a quiet pang. He really was trying hard to get Wax back out in the city, lead him onto the road to recovery. But how did one begin to grieve a ghost? How did one begin to bandage old wounds that had been torn open all the wider?

“Sometimes, things aren’t as complicated as we make them. Look into the staff. Now, if you will excuse me.” Wax stood up. Marasi was used to him being a little on the brusque side, but this was just tired and broken. He kept the pieces all together, at least when she saw him, but he still seemed too worn, too exhausted. “I should finish going through these accounts. Don’t worry, I’m sure you two are perfectly capable of handling this without me.”

*** * ***

Wayne was mostly quiet on the way back to Marasi’s flat. She couldn’t begin to understand how much more difficult it would have been for him to see his friend in that state not once, but twice. He did try to encourage Wax, to coax him back into something resembling their usual routine, but recovery was a rocky process, and even moreso after something as devastating as Wax had gone through.

It was hard to see them both like this—Wax’s moods wore off onto Wayne, too, although the latter did a good job of shaking it off and putting on a smile.

She wondered briefly if it was just another disguise—a voice that did not shake with concern, a face that smiled and laughed rather than wearing the shadows and ghosts that haunted him.

Though she had been meaning to save them for a bad day, Marasi retrieved the last packet of her favourite biscuits from the pantry and set them on a plate once they were settled back at her place.

“Ain’t you worried ‘bout what people will think?” He asked as she returned to the sitting room, moving slowly to maintain a precarious balance. She carried a tray with all the necessities for tea, snacks included, and the heavy teapot was threatening the uprightness of the entire tray. Wayne had already made himself at home on the couch, but when he glanced over to see her, he reached out to lighten part of her load. The biscuits. Of course.

“What do you mean?” She set the tray down and poured herself some tea, adding plenty of cream and sugar. 

“This is the second time you’ve invited a right handsome young gentleman into your abode,” Wayne said, puffing himself up slightly. “I thought you was all about bein’ _proper_ and that rubbish.”

When he put it that way, it _did_ sound inappropriate, though she hadn’t been thinking about it at the time. The first time he’d come in, she was far too tired to do anything but wave him in and show him where to put the case files. Then, she had been too wrapped up in work to care how long he stuck around. This time, she simply hadn’t considered what her neighbours might think.

“I think I foiled my prospects of finding a suitable husband when I became a constable,” Marasi sighed. “If not when I started running around with you two.” In comparison, most other people seemed boring, if she was being honest. She had done it to herself, though, and refused to regret anything. Getting tied up with Wax and Wayne had given her a good excuse to start taking control of her own life. “So long as you _don’t_ try to steal any of my clothing.” She pointed an accusatory spoon in his direction; he grinned innocently.

“We’ve been over this. I don’t steal, I—”

“Don’t even _try_ to wiggle your way around this one. No stealing, trading, pilfering, borrowing, or otherwise coming into possession of my clothes without my express permission.” The last thing she wanted was Wayne using one of her brassieres for a disguise. If it was possible to retain _some_ dignity, she had to at least try. 

They moved onto the details of the case, and soon there were papers scattered all over the room: sketches of the crime scene and the layout of the house, a map of the octant, and some of Wayne’s stick figure masterpieces. There were files of suspects and broadsheet clippings, bank correspondence and testimonies. No matter how they looked, they could find nothing besides what they had already called into question.

“What if we’re overthinking this, like Wax said?” Marasi posited, tapping her pencil against her lower lip thoughtfully. “What if our killer used Allomancy to get in and out?”

“You didn’t see any sign of anyone fiddling with the window,” he pointed out.

“Yes, but what if they didn’t go out through the window? What if they walked right out?”

“They’d have to go right past the butler’s office to do that, and I ain’t never heard of any Allomancy that can get them past someone without their notice. Plus, it still don’t explain why Hastings was found shot and staged like he killed himself.”

“Emotional Allomancy?” She ventured. Marasi knew that Soothing and Rioting were not devices of mind control, despite what others thought. Wayne shook his head. “I know. It was a long shot. I just don’t see how, even if it was the staff, they could have gotten in, killed Hastings, and gotten out by locking the door from the inside. No one of them could have pulled it off by themselves, especially not without being seen by someone.”

“Can’t shake the feeling that the butler knows more than he lets on, though,” Wayne said, helping himself to the biscuits. 

“I agree.”

They sat for a few minutes in silence, but then Wayne made Marasi jump by suddenly smacking himself in the forehead. “The paint!” He said. When she gave him a look, he settled back on the couch. “The red paint that was on the walls. Did you ever look into where it came from?”

“I can’t say so,” Marasi replied. “A can of red paint was found next to Hastings’ desk. It first glance, it matched the paint on the walls. I imagine it was taken from somewhere on the property.”

“Did you see anything painted red in that house?” Wayne stared at her expectantly.

“No,” she admitted. “Are you saying the killer brought their own paint to the crime scene? That seems rather silly to me.”

“I’ll still see if anyone was doing repairs around the time Hastings was killed. Might be a dead end, but it’s better than nothing.”

Marasi nodded. “Good plan. Leave no stone unturned, I suppose.” 

*** * ***

They spent well into morning coming up with and discarding theories, running over the suspects until they could quote back to each other every minute detail of every person’s life. Marasi eventually fell asleep curled up in her chair.

Wayne didn’t particularly want to stick around while she slept, and it was still dark enough outside that he could slip out the door. He wanted to be out of the neighbourhood before anyone could notice and get affronted at his presence in her flat. Before he left, he draped a blanket over her sleeping form. When he passed her table, he stopped, noticing one paper sticking out from the rest. It was the paper on which he’d drawn himself and Wax, only Marasi had added a smaller figure in a dress—herself—standing next to them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Hannah,
> 
> What, exactly, is an accusatory spoon?
> 
> Love, Hannah.
> 
> Tune in next time to see if I ever get my facts straight and this case ever actually progresses. (I actually do know who the culprit is, despite what it may seem.)


	4. The Violet Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a lull in the case, wherein Marasi and Wayne go about their lives. Marasi goes to the tailor, Wayne falls in love (not what you expect), and Steris shows up for long enough that I fall in love with her all over again. Also, automobiles, matchmaker tailors, and formal parties; a distinct and disappointing lack of murder all around.
> 
> Frankly, nothing particularly conducive to plot things happens here. If you're in it for the murder, you can probably skip reading all 10k of this garbage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did this chapter alone morph into a monster of almost 10k words. How. Anyway, sorry about the delay if anybody is actively reading this; I was finishing my novel for NaNoWriMo whilst being drowned with work for my courses.
> 
> To anyone who reads this and thinks: that's now how automobiles work in Elendel, you are correct. But SOMEONE didn't do his research (SANDERSON IF UR READING THIS, I'M TALKING TO YOU) and if Elendel has just started getting gasoline automobiles, they are not going to have gas pedals and stick shift. I did not struggle to understand paragraph upon paragraph of description on how to start up an Old Timey Car just to be proven wrong.
> 
> Ahem. Anyway, I apologise for the length of this. Again, I haven't edited. I'm tired. Finals are almost upon me. This is so self-indulgent.

The motorcar inched forward in short, stilted fits of motion. A pale Marasi clung desperately to the door, her eyes squeezed shut, feeling her stomach turn every time the vehicle lurched.

“This was a real good idea,” Wayne said from the driver’s seat. “I knew you’d see sense eventually.”

Marasi wasn’t seeing much of _anything_ at that moment, which was admittedly rather the point. If she wasn’t a direct witness to the nightmare unfolding around her, perhaps that would make it less real.

 _That conclusion doesn’t follow with any logic whatsoever,_ the analytic part of her reasoned. The other, more terrified part of her told the analytic part to shut its rusting mouth.

“Please, Wayne, just hold the throttle down steadily. This isn’t a telegram; you don’t have to—”

The motorcar coughed and sputtered, but finally eased into motion, settling into a low roar instead of imitating the calamity of sounds that were happening in Marasi’s head. It felt like they were moving at a steady pace, so Marasi finally dared to crack an eye open.

The moment she did, Wayne shoved the throttle forward, causing the motorcar to lurch into a slow sprint. Marasi yelped, fingers scrabbling white-knuckled on the car door as if unconsciously trying to eject her from the metal death trap of her motorcar.

“You look like Wax when he’s subjected to _your_ driving,” Wayne commented. It sounded like he was grinning, but she couldn’t tell because her eyes were closed once again.

“How dare you,” Marasi gasped, hating how choked she sounded. “I am an excellent driver.” She forced herself to look and immediately regretted it. Her hand flew to the side and her fingers latched onto Wayne’s shoulder, digging in much harder than she had intended. “Look out!”

The motorcar dodged around the carriage at the last moment, earning an angry scowl from the driver. Judging by the smile on Wayne’s face, he wasn’t nearly as apologetic as he should have been. He weaved around a straggling pedestrian without slowing in the slightest.

In fact, if Marasi set aside her panic for a moment to assess him, he seemed very much in control of the vehicle. She squinted at Wayne. “You know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?”

“I _never_ know what I’m doing,” Wayne said with that annoyingly guileless smile of his. Marasi shook her head and fixed her eyes ahead of the vehicle.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

“It’s on account of my winning personality. Also on account of how you conners never seem to get enough sleep, and I ain’t gonna die in one of these things if you’re fallin’ asleep at the wheel.” He sounded totally casual about it, like it was all a foregone conclusion—Marasi would overwork herself to exhaustion, and he would step in to take the lead. She wondered how often he’d had to do the same with Wax; he must have been given duties after Wax left the Roughs, after all.

“You’re practically a constable, too, you know.”

“No, I ain’t. See, I’m a lot smarter than your average conner ‘cause I know you need to sleep to do things like _not_ crash a motorcar. You’d think that’d be common sense.” He gave her a look that implied she should know that, though there was some lingering amusement behind it. Marasi huffed.

“We don’t get much chance when there’s a new homicide in the octant,” she said. “The constabulary is understaffed, and there are only so many detectives. You know that.”

Wayne shrugged. “Then get ‘em to hire more. Still ain’t gonna let us die in one of these things.”

Marasi settled back against the passenger’s seat and clamped her lips shut when Wayne swerved around another vehicle. It took her a few minutes to find her sense of security in Wayne’s erratic driving—he seemed to have perfect control over the motorcar, but he also appeared to find some entertainment in her reactions, which were usually something along the lines of gripping the seat with a vice grip, smacking his arm in a near panic, or yelping a warning.

He glanced over at her briefly before turning his eyes back to the road. “Can’t believe you trust me in a firefight but not in a motorcar,” he said, a small smile on his lips.

“That’s different,” she grumbled. “When the bullets start flying, at least I know what to expect from you. This is like giving you an entire _arsenal_ of guns.” She finally relaxed, however. When he said he wanted to learn how to drive, she was reluctant to teach him, but she had to agree that he had a point about her sleeping schedule (or lack thereof). Although he claimed he _had_ to be better than a sleep-deprived Marasi, she had been doubtful.

 _“Ain’t that the opposite of the way it’s supposed to work?”_ He had asked as he worked the crank to get the vehicle started. _“You know, innocent until proven guilty and whatnot?”_

 _“I’m not an attorney anymore,”_ she’d reminded him. _“And apparently I’m working by Roughs standards now.”_ That had gotten a small laugh out of him.

It was one of Marasi’s days off—working on the murder case had racked up her overtime, and Reddi finally all but demanded she go home and take a break. 

The red paint proved to be a dead end. It didn’t have anything to differentiate it from one place to another, and no matter where the constables checked, they couldn’t find the source. Even though Reddi called the staff in for further questioning, that hadn’t gone anywhere, either. The butler had asked for an attorney, and none of the others had anything useful to add; the butler, they eventually released because he wasn’t an actual suspect. 

For all intents and purposes, the investigation had hit a wall. With no leads to follow, Wayne had little reason to stick around with Marasi, but it seemed he’d decided her company was preferable to whatever trouble he got into without Wax. Or maybe she was just amusing for the time being—she really couldn’t tell with Wayne.

Anyway, she scheduled their driving lesson, although she truly couldn’t say why she obliged in the first place. They eventually pulled up in a shopping market near Marasi’s neighbourhood.

“Why can’t you just loaf around like normal folk on your days off?” Wayne eased down on the brake, but the motorcar still jerked to an abrupt halt.

“As much as I’d love to relax, I have had this appointment with my tailor for weeks now,” Marasi replied, digging around in her pocketbook to find her locket-sized timepiece. She still had a few hours before her appointment, but she wanted to do some shopping in the meantime. “And I have arranged to take tea with Steris afterward. Regrettably, I don’t have the time for ‘loafing.’”

“What kind of person don’t make time for loafing?” Wayne complained. He stepped out of the car and closed the door with more gusto than strictly necessary.

“You don’t have to come with me,” Marasi said, smiling faintly. “Feel free to loaf wherever you like.”

“It’s too late for that now. I gotta make sure you don’t keel over on account of too much sensible-ness.”

“Just try not to trade for anything, would you? It will be a miserable time for both of us if I have to explain why you tried to trade a pocket watch for a potato.”

“I’d _never_.” Wayne sounded scandalised. “I’d leave a nice candlestick, at least. Or maybe _mashed_ potatoes, those’re fancier.”

Of course. That made perfect sense. Logic truly couldn’t be used on Wayne—Marasi wondered sometimes what would happen if he were called upon to testify in court. She certainly wouldn’t want to be the one to cross-examine him. Marasi was of the opinion that having Wayne in court would be akin to witnessing a train wreck instigated solely by clowns.

“No trading,” she said firmly. “I’ll get you some of those biscuits you like if we get out of the situation with no fuss.”

He squinted at her, then stuck his hand out for her to shake. “You drive a hard bargain, mate. It’s a deal.”

Smiling, Marasi shook his hand.

It was very odd to have Wayne trailing her as she did her shopping. He took some level of interest in the myriad spices she picked up for cooking—he sniffed at one she used whenever she tried to make Terris food and couldn’t stop sneezing for a good five minutes—but otherwise he was fairly well-behaved and even went so far as to carry her things when he saw she was having a hard time juggling all of her groceries.

At the general store, she picked up _two_ extra packs of the biscuits for his good behaviour. It felt a lot like she was mothering him, but rewards were proven to work better than punishment.

Occasionally, she’d catch something she hadn’t picked out among her things, and had to send Wayne to put it back. It became something of an unspoken game—Marasi had to notice when Wayne had added something to her shopping before she went to pay.

It wasn’t until she’d reached the tailor’s shop that she remembered she had wanted to visit the butcher, too, but forgot because she was so caught up in their silly game.

“You _really_ don’t have to come with me for this,” she reminded him. Although she didn’t mind his company normally, her tailor was probably going to have her pinned up in her underclothes. Though Wayne had expressed little in the way of interest in her, the thought of him seeing her like that still made her cheeks heat in embarrassment.

“Nah, your tailor might know about a good haberdashery. ‘Sides, I’m real good at giving opinions on this sorta thing. I’ve helped Wax pick out his best cravats.”

“That isn’t saying much, Wayne. That silver one he likes so much is horrific.”

“That’s what I keep tryin’ to tell him! I’ve tried to trade him for it, but he always tells me to give it back.”

In the tailor’s shop, he wandered around, looking at the various textiles on display. Elanor Carlisle had a few of her other projects on mannequins, elegant gowns and ladies’ jackets. Although bustles had largely gone out of style, there was one on display and Wayne took interest in it. He tied it around his waist and turned to Marasi, grinning. “Does this make my arse look big?”

She couldn’t help it; she smiled back. “I’m afraid to break it to you, but yes.”

“Damn. I was going for ‘enormous.’”

“I’m terribly sorry.” She paused to watch as he examined some of the other things Elanor had set out. “Did women often wear clothes like that in the Roughs?” Marasi gestured to the bustle as he replaced it in its rightful place. He shook his head. 

“More than you’d expect, but ladies usually wore trousers more than stuff like this,” he said. “It ain’t that practical when you’re in somewhere like Weathering. What are you here for, if you don’t mind my askin’?” Wayne glanced over at her, his attention diverted from a display of buttons and bobbins.

“A few different things. I need my new uniform to be fitted for work, and there’s a gala two weeks from now that I am supposed to attend. Last minute fitting.” She gave a little shrug. She didn’t go to many galas these days, but her mother’s insistent letters had told her that she should _really_ consider going out into society in earnest even though she was a constable. Marasi interpreted it as ‘you need to start going to parties if you want to get a proper husband,’ even though she wasn’t keen on the parties _or_ the marriage prospects. Not that all men in high society were boring or awful, but the ones that _were_ certainly were awful enough to discourage any attempts to weed out the tolerable ones.

“Huh.” Wayne didn’t seem to have much to say about that, which struck her as unusual, if welcome. She did not need to go into her fitting with a full blush. “Maybe I should get a new coat,” he commented, though it seemed to be more to himself than anything else.

Elanor came in from the back, looking frazzled. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Lady Colms, I’ve had a busy morning. We can do your fitting now, if you like.” Her expression faltered as her eyes rested on Wayne, who straightened to watch Elanor with interest. “Is this—”

“A friend,” Marasi supplied hastily. The last thing she wanted was for other people to get ideas that she was seeing someone. If her mother heard any such rumours, Marasi would really be in for it, and she would likely have a conniption if she were ever to meet Wayne. “And please, don’t worry about it. Shall we?”

“Will he be… joining us?” Elanor was still staring at Wayne, slightly at a loss. Anyone else might have thought it was mere confusion, but Marasi knew Elanor well enough to know that she was sizing him up. 

“Sure,” Wayne said, as Marasi said “No.” They glanced between each other for a moment and Marasi felt herself turning pink. 

“Fine, he can come,” Marasi mumbled. “ _Provided_ he keeps quiet.” She punctuated it with a pointed frown in Wayne’s direction; he shrugged and tried to look innocent before following the women into the back. 

Marasi got changed into her uniform behind a changing screen, trusting Elanor to stop Wayne should he try anything untoward, though she didn’t think he would. As odd as he was, he respected her personal boundaries well enough. She tugged on the trousers and coat, tailored to emulate the style of the other constables. It was much more comfortable than the skirts she had been forced to wear in the past. As much as she liked skirts, they were not conducive to easy mobility.

She stepped out from behind the screen, straightening the jacket. It was fine tailoring, but it still wasn’t quite right. “I think it’s a little loose in the bodice,” she said. “If you could take it in a little more in the waist, it will be perfect.” Marasi did her best to ignore Wayne, though he only glanced over her briefly before settling on one of the chairs and slouching halfway in his seat.

Elanor had Marasi stand on a stool as she pinned the jacket properly. “Wayne, are you certain you wouldn’t prefer to do something else? I can’t imagine this is very interesting.”

“Of course it’s interesting. I gotta make sure she’s not gonna make a mess of your wardrobe.” Wayne gestured at Elanor. Marasi rolled her eyes as Elanor shot a disapproving look at him.

“Don’t mind him,” she said. “He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“Well, he’s got to go, because your dress is next, and I’m going to have to strip you down to your underthings.”

“Can I watch?” Wayne asked.

“ _Wayne._ ”

“Sorry, ma’am. I’ll be out front.” He smiled, stood, and went to wait in the front of the shop. 

“So he’s your friend?” Elanor asked as Marasi took off the uniform. 

“For a while now,” she replied. “Don’t get any ideas.” Marasi liked Elanor a great deal—they had become friends during her first year at the university, when Marasi was looking for a good tailor and Elanor was just an apprentice. As much as she liked the other woman, though, she was very good at gossiping. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Elanor said blithely, a small smile on her lips.

“You sound just like him.”

“What? He’s cute.”

“ _You_ don’t have to babysit him,” Marasi chided, although she couldn’t claim she minded it most of the time. She took it upon herself, for one thing. Elanor cinched the measuring tape around Marasi’s waist and took a few more measurements. 

“You’ve lost a little weight since your last fitting,” she said, frowning. “Are you eating properly?”

“I am, thank you, but I have to keep strange hours. Besides, I’m not sitting around in the office all day. The constable-general keeps me on my feet more than I should be, considering I’m meant to be an analyst.”

“Whatever you say,” Elanor sighed. She went to retrieve the dress. Marasi’s mother would have loved it—it had far too much lace for Steris’ taste, but it suited Marasi just fine. She liked lace a great deal, and the deep blue chiffon was a beautiful colour. “It still fits fine. What do you think?” 

Marasi spun in front of the mirror. It had a lot more space to move in than earlier fashions, which she appreciated. Perhaps some of Wax’s paranoia was wearing off on her, and she preferred to be able to move properly in her clothing nowadays. Bulky skirts tended to impede motion. “I love it,” she said, smiling.

“The men sure won’t be able to take their eyes off of you,” Elanor said appreciatively, nodding in satisfaction. “I imagine your mother will be pleased about that. Have you decided if you’re going alone?”

Marasi winced. She had been hoping Elanor would have forgotten about the fact that she hadn’t been able to find an escort earlier. Some of her friends from the prosecutor’s office were tolerable, but they were all busy with another party on the same evening. She certainly wasn’t going to ask anyone from the constabulary. 

An eligible young woman going to a gala of this sort unaccompanied would be strange, but if she couldn’t find someone to go with her, hopefully it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Since becoming a constable, she had rather acquired a reputation for being on the unconventional side, anyway. 

“No,” she admitted begrudgingly. Elanor grinned. “ _No,_ ” Marasi said, more firmly. Elanor did _not_ need to get any ideas.

“Is your friend doing anything interesting then?”

“Which interesting friend?” Wayne piped up near the door. Marasi scowled at Elanor.

“Oh, Marasi is just going to that gala in two weeks and somehow she doesn’t have a date.” Elanor thrust her hands out in a dramatic gesture at Marasi. “Can you believe it? Look at her! This is preposterous.”

“Why didn’t you say so? I know plenty of good blokes what’d love to you with you, mate,” Wayne said. “Riles’d definitely say yes, he ain’t ever got anything interesting goin’ on. Or Tyvin, since Riles is kinda a git. So’s Tyvin, actually, now I think about it.” He paused to think. “I mean, you could always ask Wax, but he hasn’t gone to any of those fancy parties lately, which is probably a good thing on account of things usually blowing up or getting shot when he goes…”

Wayne continued to consider who he might be able to set Marasi up with while Elanor gave Marasi a questioning glance that said something along the lines of ‘is he actually that dense?’ 

“I’m sure you know somebody more interesting than them,” Elanor said, a sly look in her eye. Marasi wanted to shrivel up on the spot—she did _not_ need her friend playing matchmaker with other friends. 

“Well, I know Wax is boring, but rusts, woman, I’m trying! I’m the most interesting person I know, but—”

“In that case, are you free in two weeks?” Elanor interrupted quickly. Wayne briefly went slack-jawed. He recovered fast, flashing a grin.

“I’d be honoured to accompany Lady Marasi to the gala,” he said, sweeping a bow and using a refined accent. “Provided there’s snacks, of course.” He winked at them, but Marasi caught something off in his tone—his eyes lighted on her briefly, but then he straightened and he was back to normal. 

“I, um, need to change out of this,” Marasi interrupted before Elanor could instigate any more awkwardness. She stepped back behind the changing screen. 

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Elanor’s smug voice sounded from the other side. 

“I could have found a date myself,” Marasi complained, stepping out of the dress and holding it out for her friend to grab. 

“I just made it that much easier on you. Again, you’re _welcome._ ”

Marasi shook her head as she changed back into her own dress. “You don’t know what you’ve just gotten us into,” she said. She stepped out from behind the changing screen, fussing with her coat lapels.

“I think I know exactly what I was doing,” Elanor replied breezily, settling her hands on Marasi’s shoulders momentarily before she started to steer Marasi out of the shop. “You can pick up your uniform tomorrow.” 

“Say, can I come in tomorrow, too? I should get some tailorin’ done on my coat,” Wayne said, even as Elanor more or less kicked Marasi out. They made an appointment while Marasi stared so hard at Elanor it should have bored holes in the other woman’s head. When they were both dismissed as Elanor’s next client came in, Marasi exhaled heavily. 

“I’m sorry about that,” she said. “She’s been a friend of mine for about five years now. She’s a little overzealous sometimes.” Marasi smiled.

“’S alright,” he said, and again, something struck her as strange in his voice. “Where’re you headed next? You said you’ve got a date with your sister, yeah?”

“Yes, that’s correct; I should be headed over to the tea house now.” Steris did not take kindly to tardiness. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t take you with me this time.”

“Nah, I didn’t think she’d want to see me, anyway.” This time, there was certainly something different in his tone. Although she was not exceptionally close to Steris, she did know about Wayne’s feelings toward her. She considered holding her tongue, but—

Oh, to hell with it. She had kept her mouth shut for long enough.

“I know you don’t think much of Steris, but please… try not to be so harsh on her. She’s doing her best,” Marasi said. Wayne just answered with a shrug. “Why don’t you like her, anyway? As far as I can see, she’s quite good for Wax.”

“She’s not his type.” Wayne’s gaze settled on her for an uncomfortable moment, and Marasi finally understood. Steris wasn’t enough like Lessie—if anything, Wayne likely thought she would only rein Wax in. Marasi saw it the other way; Steris was a stabilising force, and just what Wax needed at a time like this. 

“Maybe not for the Wax from a decade ago,” she said quietly. “But she _is_ good for him.” She pawed through her pocketbook for her timepiece again, and gasped. “Oh, I’m going to be late! Do you have plans for dinner?”

A confused Wayne frowned at Marasi. “Do I?”

“If you’d like to drop by tonight, I’ll make Terris food.” She had been meaning to invite him for dinner for a while, at least to keep him out of trouble while Wax was in poor shape. “I have to go right now, but feel free to stop by around… six, if that works for you.”

He still seemed baffled, but he managed to accept her invitation and she hurried to the tea house. Steris was waiting for her tensely, shoulders drawn back and lips pressed together in a tight line. “Sorry I’m late,” Marasi said quickly, settling into the seat across from her half-sister. It was only by a handful of minutes, but Steris tended to be brutally unforgiving about such faux pas. “I was preoccupied with the tailor.”

Steris hummed, a noncommittal noise accentuated with a too-casual sip from her teacup. “I do not suppose it has anything to do with Lord Waxillium’s friend.”

 _He has a name,_ Marasi thought, but it had no bite behind it. Steris was not petty—she did not hold a grudge against Wayne for all he disapproved of her. “He helped me with shopping. The holdup wasn’t his fault.” That much was true. She was going to have _words_ with Elanor at the next time they were together. The server brought her tea and poured it—Marasi spared him a smile and a ‘thank you;’ the tea was nearly scalding when she took a sip, so she set it down on the saucer and redirected her attention to Steris. “Anyway, how are you? Lord Harms is well, I presume?”

The name slipped out before she could think about it. Though it was no secret any longer that she was Lord Harms’ bastard daughter, she was so accustomed to addressing him formally that it was second nature.

Steris tucked a small notebook into her purse. Marasi knew from experience that the notebook contained a series of acceptable conversation topics for such occasions. They did not spend time together very frequently due to Marasi’s status—and now even less, since becoming a constable—but it was often enough that she knew how to circumnavigate unconventional topics and keep the conversation within a realm Steris was comfortable with. Sometimes, it was difficult not to tease her half-sister, but her intent was never malicious, and she did feel bad about it afterward.

“We are both well. Father’s mania of the month is cricket.” Steris’ lips pressed together tighter for a moment. Lord Harms was a man of many and frequent obsessions. It explained a lot, frankly. 

“Cricket?” Marasi raised her teacup and took a sip; she winced. Of course, it hadn’t cooled sufficiently in the twenty seconds since the last sip. “How is that going for him?”

“Well enough. He meets with some of his friends weekly for matches, though I expect he will have to find something else once it begins raining. As for myself…” Steris hesitated. “I have been preoccupied, as you know.”

“How is he?”

“Since the last time you saw him? Not much has changed.” With a sigh, Steris curled her fingers around the delicate teacup. “Grief is… a process. He is preoccupied with house matters of late. It keeps him busy, at the least.”

Some processes ended. Some were continuous, a cycle of ups and downs. Grief was supposed to be one of the former, but the truth as far as Marasi knew it was that it simply wasn’t that easy. Time patched the wounds over, but it didn’t always heal, not in the way people said. Loss was an aching thing that burrowed cold and hollow inside of you; one some nights, it stirred and stretched like the mists. On others, it stayed blessedly dormant.

There was a heavy pause. “He told me you stopped by with Wayne the other night.”

“We have an interesting case in the constabulary,” Marasi said absently. Steris didn’t like talking about work, although she was getting more accustomed to it. Constable work was not fitting for a woman with an education and training like Marasi, but Steris was certainly more accepting about it than she might have been before she was engaged to Wax. “Wayne thought he might like to hear about it.”

“Lord Waxillium did not show any interest, then.”

“No, he did not. He barely offered a few words of suggestion.”

Steris did not say anything in response. She raised her teacup to her lips in a slow, calculated motion. It was in these silences that Marasi had learned to interpret whatever her sister would not speak aloud. The two were not close, but Steris was a person who adhered to patterns—Marasi couldn’t claim to be a gambler, but she knew how to read tells. 

Worry settled in the crease between Steris’ brows, concern collected in the tired corners of her eyes. She, too, had bruise-like smudges beneath her eyes, although they were fainter, possibly powdered over to keep from looking too unseemly. 

If she was losing sleep worrying about Wax, she cared about him a great deal. 

Both Marasi and Steris were women who liked to be in control despite the circumstances. For Steris, her control was in schedules and itineraries, impeccably-scribed lists designed for every occasion. For Marasi, it was the comfort of numbers and figures, theories that could explain anything and everything. This was something no list or theory could fix; Steris could make her lists and schedules, and Marasi could cite any number of statistics, and it would not change what had happened to Wax or how he could be made to recover.

The helplessness of it was one of the worst parts—no matter what they did, ultimately, people were not machines to be fixed. They repaired themselves slowly, regardless of outside influence. Steris and Marasi could not heal whatever pains had been inflicted by the past; they could only stand by and make themselves available.

Steris had done a far better job of that than Marasi had, but Wax was more interested in Steris’ presence, anyway. Marasi didn’t take it personally, not like Wayne seemed to. 

“As much as I have disapproved of Lord Waxillium’s methods in the past, I admit it is… disconcerting to see him this way,” Steris said at length. “In any case, you have been keeping busy as well?”

“Besides work, yes. Wayne has taken to popping into the constabulary when he’s bored, I assume due to…” Marasi trailed off, her brows twitching upward meaningfully. “Aside from that, I agreed to attend Lord Yomen’s charity gala and I have been preparing for that. My dress fitting was today, which is why I was late.” She barrelled on before her sister could connect the dots between Wayne helping her with shopping and the fitting. “Next week, a few of the ladies from the University are getting together for an outing. I rarely see them these days, so I am looking forward to it.”

“Marasi.” Across the table, Steris set her teacup down with a definitive _clink_. Her eyes glowed with mild disapproval. “Are you going to the shooting gallery again?”

“…Perhaps?” 

Marksmanship was not a lady’s pastime. Fortunately, Marasi felt she was outgrowing the concept of traditional femininity. Women had been restrained by their roles enough before the Catacendre—she did not have to abide by the same ridiculous demands. In her line of work, it was impractical not to be able to defend herself. Squinting faintly at Marasi, Steris exhaled in a quiet way that was not a huff, but might as well have been. “Just… be careful.”

“You give me too little credit,” Marasi said gently, a small smile flickering over her lips. “I’m always careful.”

They moved on to more mundane topics of conversation—although Marasi couldn’t claim they were particularly close, she did care about her sister and it was nice to catch up after a few weeks of barely seeing each other. Steris even surprised her by cracking a joke about Lady Killarn’s salon in the past week; it startled a laugh out of Marasi that caused everyone in the vicinity to glance furtively in her direction. 

As Marasi dabbed gingerly at the now tea-stained front of her dress, the corners of her lips twitching in an effort to curb her amusement, Steris relaxed minutely. “You _are_ sure you wouldn’t prefer to stay with us still? It would be no trouble.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m fine. Really. I enjoy the independence.” Marasi, too, relaxed. “Not that I minded staying with you and Lord Harms, but it is nice not feeling like I owe anyone, or like I’m in the way.”

“You were never in the way.”

Steris spoke with a certainty that hit Marasi solidly in the chest and nearly drove the breath out of her. During the time she had lived with them and attended her classes at the University, she very rarely felt wanted. At the risk of sounding self-pitying, it was a familiar feeling, but hearing this from Steris now—well, if Marasi didn’t entirely believe her, it wasn’t due to any lack of sincerity on Steris’ part. 

With a slow, hesitant motion, Steris reached out and placed her hand briefly on Marasi’s. “We should do this more often,” Steris said, and then pulled away to dig in her pocketbook for a few notes to pay for the tea. 

“I agree,” said Marasi, feeling warm. She was sure her cheeks were a little pink. Reaching into her own purse, she checked her watch for the time. 

“I should go, but I’ll give Lord Harms your regards, shall I?” 

“Yes, please, and Wax, too.” Marasi had little doubt that’s where Steris was headed once she left the teahouse. “I’ll do my best to keep Wayne out of your hair.”

“Even you cannot perform miracles,” Steris said with the tiniest hint of a smile.

*** * ***

Wayne was going to have to get a new jacket. His good formal jacket was in a pretty rusting awful condition after an incident with four bottles of rum, a bet, and approximately eight knives. Could’ve been ten, though. It was hard to tell on account of how fuzzy his vision was at the time, and also on account of the fact that he didn’t like having to count past five on a good day.

The only good thing Wayne could see about the neighbourhood was that it had some real interesting accents for him to pick up. He’d expected that all the interesting accents were in the poorer parts of Elendel, but in a market frequented by more middle-class people, you had to pay close attention to find the interesting things. 

It was full of people who were experts at _pretending_ to be at a higher class than they were, but if he listened real close he could hear something shifting quiet and careful over their vowels; they clipped their consonants just a little too short. Like Marasi, they’d been raised to be something in-between all their lives—not quite nobles, not quite anything else. 

He’d say he didn’t get why people would try to be someone they weren’t, but that’d be an outright lie. What he didn’t get was that why they’d want to stay that way. There was appeal in being someone else sometimes, sure, but to keep up a disguise indefinitely… now that just didn’t make sense.

Either way, Wayne had time to kill between the point when Marasi was with Steris and dinner, which was, apparently, a thing that was happening. Not that he minded. Free food was never a bad thing, provided it wasn’t poisoned. She wouldn’t poison his dinner, would she? Nah, probably not. She wasn’t that subtle. She’d just shoot him instead.

He went to the constabulary, since it wasn’t that far off anyway, and there was always more going on there than in sleepy middle-class neighbourhoods. Disappointingly, it was a quiet afternoon. Wayne snatched a biscuit from one of the conners’ desks and left a nice pen he traded Wax for earlier that day, and then he made himself comfortable at Marasi’s desk. Reddi glanced out of his office and glowered at Wayne, who ignored it.

Marasi kept her desk neatly organised, but he didn’t pay much attention to her setup and checked the files she had stored carefully in the drawers. Most of it was maps and charts and the like—all boring things Wayne didn’t bother making much sense of. One file finally caught his attention. It held a few broadsheet clippings detailing a series of armed break-ins that had happened over the past few months, four in total, all in the same neighbourhood. Each incident was circled in red ink on a map of the octant, with a star on top of a fifth location. 

Wayne vaguely recalled hearing Marasi rattle off her job description to him and Wax when she first got it. Something about predicting future criminal events based on patterns. Not everyone thought it worked, so her efforts were sometimes shucked to the side in favour of the tried-and-true methods. Up at the top, she had scribbled a date—today’s date, followed by a handful of question marks. 

“It’s Constable Colms’ day off,” a voice said near Wayne, who glanced up to see Reddi staring disapprovingly down at him.

“Did she show you this?” Wayne asked, shoving the map at the constable-general.

“I—she may have brought it up once or twice.” Reddi frowned down at the paper in Wayne’s hand. “But we’re already backed up enough as it is. I don’t have the time or manpower to waste on conjectures.”

“She thinks it’ll happen today. Pretty soon, too, I reckon.”

“She’s been wrong before.”

“You ain’t all that backed up right now,” Wayne pointed out. Constables milled around the precinct floor aimlessly, some talking and laughing with their colleagues over steaming cups of tea. “What’ve you got to lose?” He grinned. “If you don’t wanna check it out, I can do it myself.”

“Harmony’s forearms.” Reddi snatched the map from Wayne, an annoyed breath puffing out his drooping moustache. “Fine, I’ll take a few men down with me. If you promise to stay out of the way.”

“I’m an expert at staying out of the way,” Wayne said, even though his tattered formal jacket with eight to ten stab wounds would beg to differ.

*** * ***

When Reddi and his constables hauled in a group of six armed robbers, Wayne was grinning widely. He wisely restrained himself from saying ‘I told you so’ to Reddi, but he _did_ make a few faces at the robbers as they were tossed in the holding cells. But he didn’t gloat. No, that would be downright childish, and _he_ was a good citizen doing his job to protect the public interest.

“So?” He said to Reddi once the man retreated into his office to file the millions of forms that came with arresting someone. Rustin’ unbelievable. In the Roughs, if you arrested a man, that was that. 

“What?” Reddi glared up at Wayne. Did he even know _how_ to smile?

“She was right.”

“This time,” Reddi said.

“And you wouldn’t’ve caught ‘em if she hadn’t spelled it all out for you.” When _Wayne_ was the one that had to give someone a lesson in reading comprehension, the world had really gone to rust. 

“We would have caught them,” Reddi insisted.

“You _might’ve_ caught ‘em.”

“You’ve had your moment of gloating, and you’ve done your good deed for the day. Don’t you have someone else to pester?”

“Aw, mate,” Wayne said, “sure I’ve got other folk to pester, but it’s more entertainin’ to bother you. D’you know how much we would’ve liked to have someone to do all this predictin’ stuff in the Roughs? We hit a lot of dead ends that woulda been fixed by something like this.”

“I’ll be certain to tell her she has a job in the Roughs if she should need something new,” Reddi snapped, a harsh edge to his tone that Wayne didn’t like one bit. 

“Look,” Wayne said, crossing his arms. “You’ve got a valuable resource here and you’re not using it. Whatever your problem is, mate, holdin’ a grudge is only gonna make it harder to do your job. She’s trying to make it _easier_. She got the position for a reason; might as well listen to what she’s got to say.” He paused and smiled. “Know what I think? You know when little boys pull little girls’ hair ‘cause they think she’s pretty? That’s kind of like what you’re doing. Maybe it’s ‘cause you think she’s cute.”

“That is outrageous, how could you _possibly_ —”

Reddi spluttered and spat a response, but Wayne was already turning on his heels and heading out of the constabulary. Yep, he had worked up a sufficient appetite; doing good deeds was hungry work. It occurred to him that he’d never sampled any of Marasi’s cooking. Hopefully it wasn’t anything like Lessie’s. That woman—or, kandra, he supposed—could kill koloss with that rubbish. You’d think after living a couple thousand years, you’d pick up a thing or two about fine cuisine.

*** * ***

“You don’t have to do it, you know,” Marasi said as Wayne was helping himself to something that smelled spicy and sweet at the same time. For all he couldn’t smell worth a heap of beans, he was damn sure that whatever was in the dish smelled powerful and delicious enough to raise a dead man. He still didn’t know why she’d invited him over, but he wasn’t about to complain.

Her comment raised a few red flags, though, and he paused in the act of spooning the delicious-smelling substance onto his plate. “Is it poison?”

“What?” She stared at him, puzzled. When realisation dawned on her face, her mouth formed a little ‘o’ and her cheeks went pink. “Oh, no. I mean, it shouldn’t be. I know I’m not the _best_ cook, but I don’t think it’s that bad.”

Marasi fell silent as she watched him gingerly raise a forkful into his mouth—the forkful in question would have been a little more generous, but her comment roused some small suspicion in him. It melted away immediately. Whatever she’d put in the dish, he would’ve been happy if he never had to eat anything else in his life. He had a new love, and that was whatever he was shovelling into his face. 

After a few moments of watching him, she wet her lips and spoke. “Is it alright?”

“Alright?” Wayne said around a liberal mouthful. “I think you missed your calling, mate.”

Marasi sighed in relief. “To be honest, this is one of the only things I can cook convincingly, and I always make far too much. Anyway, I, um, I wanted to apologise if Elanor put you in an uncomfortable spot earlier.” She shoved a few pieces of potato around on her own plate. “What I meant before is that you don’t have to accompany me to the gala if you don’t want to.”

Wayne paused mid-chew. It took him a bit to remember to keep chewing. “If you don’t want me to go, you can just say so,” he said. “I ain’t gonna be offended if I ain’t your first choice.”

Marasi’s jaw went slack and her lips parted slightly. She did this thing when she was surprised where her eyes went real big and round, and she did an even more intense version of that now. “Oh,” she said.

Wayne wasn’t exactly unaccustomed to playing second fiddle. After all, he was Wax’s deputy and had been for nearly half his life. He wasn’t stupid, either—he knew what people saw when they looked at him. In fact, he relied on it most of the time. It just made the disguises that much more effective. Marasi’s friend had to ask on her behalf, and Marasi’d had any number of opportunities to ask if she wanted. He wasn’t upset or anything—after all, she probably had any number of other people to ask, so it’d been something of a surprise to be invited.

Her eyes were still all wide. “Wayne, that isn’t—what I meant was—” She paused to collect herself, taking a deep breath. “It’s not that I don’t want to go with you, I just wasn’t sure it was the sort of thing you’d enjoy. It is going to be very boring, and I wouldn’t go, myself, if I didn’t know my mother would make a fuss.”

She seemed genuinely distraught at the implication that he was her last choice. “Is that—is that what you were acting strange about?”

Wayne resumed eating. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he said.

Marasi smiled a little, and finally set into her plateful. She shrugged her shoulders back and straightened her spine. “I would be honoured if you would accompany me, then.”

“They’re gonna have good snacks, though?”

“You remember Lord Yomen? And the wedding reception?”

“Oh, it’s his party? He’s got real poor taste in soups.”

“Hopefully this time there will be a better selection of soup, for your sake.”

“And less getting shot,” Wayne added. 

“I agree wholeheartedly.” Marasi watched as Wayne took _another_ serving. “How do you feel about taking home some leftovers?”

“Hate to break it to you, mate, but there ain’t gonna be much left once I’m done with this.”

Marasi blushed. “You know how I said I tend to overestimate how much to cook? There’s a whole pot still in the kitchen. I’ll give it to you if you try to force some into Wax.”

“If I have to do any forcin’, I’ll know for sure he’s a lost cause.”

*** * ***

Much to Wayne’s delight, there _was_ a better selection of soups. Marasi found that one of the biggest benefits to attending a party with her slightly miscreant friend meant that he was able to find out what desserts were going to be served after dinner, and he managed to sneak a small plate of tiny cakes for them to snack on. Chocolate, of course. Perhaps Elanor had done her a favour after all. 

He did clean up nicely, she had to admit—he wore a nicely-tailored three-piece suit, and he looked very smart. Though this was not the first time she had seen him in formal clothing, it was a welcome change of pace from his usual attire. 

“Is that the jacket you wore to Innate’s party?” She asked.

“Nah, had to get a new one. Wax tried the old one on and it ripped. I keep tellin’ him he has to watch what he eats and that he’s gotta start liftin’ weights if he wants to stay in shape at his age, but he never listens to me.” Wayne shook his head, like he was sincerely sorry. 

Marasi smiled slightly. “So, something happened to your jacket, in other words.”

“Sure, something happened to it,” Wayne said. “I just told you what happened.”

“So that’s Elanor’s work?” She should have recognised her friend’s tailoring. Elanor had a good eye, and she certainly hadn’t disappointed this time. “I’m impressed that she made the entire thing in so little time.” Marasi’s tone adopted a faint note of teasing. “I think she likes you.”

“What’s not to like? Too bad I’m taken.”

“Ah, of course.” 

“Say,” Wayne said suddenly. “Is there gonna be dancing at this party?”

Marasi glanced up at him. They were wedged into one of the corner tables, and no-one had seen fit to sit in the same place, though a few of Marasi’s friends and former colleagues from the University had strolled over to say hello. She noticed how Wayne straightened and addressed them politely, in an accent that was not his own.

“I—don’t think so, why?”

“That looks an awful lot like a dance floor to me.”

“Don’t worry about it. I doubt any will happen tonight, and if so, we aren’t necessarily obligated to participate.”

Predictably, the rest of the event dragged on rather terribly. It wasn’t that Marasi disliked parties, exactly—she did enjoy socialising with her friends, and parties were nice when one had a mind for them. Most of the time, though, she spent her time trying to keep unnoticed while she _felt_ she stuck out like a sore thumb. It had been marginally worse since news of her lineage squirmed its way into high society. What business did a bastard daughter, and a mere constable at that, have at the functions lorded over by the rich and influential?

Lord Joshin Yomen spoke at length about his plans for lowering homelessness in Elendel; temporary houses to provide succour, facilities to give food and other necessities. The gala was held in order to raise funding for an expanded renovation project in Elendel’s slums. Marasi was invested in the effort, since her studies at the University had focused on changing the environment to discourage criminality, and her final project before graduating had examined statistics regarding Lord Yomen’s endeavours.

The speeches drew out long and monotonous—Lord Yomen was not a poor orator, but he was quoting a lot of information she knew from her University days. At her elbow, Wayne nudged a small scrap of paper at her. She glanced down. On the invitation card, he had drawn a game of spears and spikes. It was, of course, embellished in typical Wayne style, with a small scene depicting him taking out a legion of armed men. No, she was mistaken—one was definitely a woman. Marasi raised her eyebrows at him. He just pushed it closer to her.

Marasi took the pencil from her handbag and drew a spear at the middle left, then nudged the card surreptitiously back at Wayne.

By the time Lord Joshin stopped speaking and a band came out for the tail end of the evening’s entertainment, he had won every round except one, and the grids had gotten tinier and tinier as they filled up the card. Some people clustered to the open space beyond the tables to dance.

When Marasi glanced up, a man was approaching their table. She quickly tucked the card into her purse. 

“Aw, hell,” Wayne said suddenly. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“That’s Tarvin Vadreaux,” Wayne grumbled, eyes riveted on the man. “We had a bit of a… uh, we’ll call it an _altercation_ , ‘bout a year back. He’s hated me since.”

Marasi glanced back over at the man. She’d heard of Lord Vadreaux, a minor lord with an unpleasant reputation. Such a shame—he was an attractive man, with high cheekbones and a jawline you could slice your fingers on. However, there was something haughty in the harsh blue of his eyes and the sour set of his mouth. “If I distract him, will you be able to slip away? I could always talk him into leaving, but—”

Upon casting a look over his shoulder, Wayne shook his head. “Wax and me kinda step on a lot of toes,” he admitted without a hint of sheepishness.

“You don’t say,” Marasi replied dryly.

“One of the caterers from the ZoBell party’s over there. She hasn’t forgotten ‘bout the sausages.”

Marasi fixed Wayne with a flat look, and he grinned. 

“Wayne? Lady Colms?”

“Too late. Marasi, would you like to dance with me?” Wayne stood and offered her his hand. Vadreaux was still picking his way around the tables. Vadreaux’s reputation was of a mean-spirited philanderer and occasional alcoholic, however, and she was not inclined to place herself between whatever grievance he had with Wayne.

“This is a _very_ bad idea,” she said as she placed her hand on Wayne’s arm, forcing herself to smile despite feeling cornered into the situation. 

“Those’re the only ideas worth having, mate.” He chuckled as he tugged her—gently—toward the floor. 

“Do you even know how to dance?” Marasi questioned, doing her best to stall for time as she arranged the skirt of her dress. She didn’t mean to sound critical, but the look he gave her in reply made her wince.

“Sure I do,” he said with a grin. “Taught Wax how to dance for his wedding.”

“Ballroom dancing? I hear Roughs dances are much different.”

“Aw, right, you’ve never been to a Roughs dance. You’re missin’ out. They’re heaps more fun than this lot. Anyway, Wax wanted to impress Lessie with his dancin’, so I helped him learn.”

Something occurred to Marasi. “Wayne… Are you saying you only know how to follow?”

“Now that’s just downright rude. I’ll have you know—”

“Waxillium was always in the leading role when he was learning to dance, correct?”

“Yeah, ‘course.”

“Then you only learned how to follow.”

There was a pause. “I can pretend. You know how to dance, right?”

“Um… no.” 

Wayne pulled up short, staring at her incredulously. They were right on the edge of the dance floor. “You’re rustin’ serious?” Marasi nodded. “What’s the good of all your fancy education nonsense if you don’t know how to dance?”

“I was too busy learning horseback riding,” Marasi offered lamely. Her cheeks were on fire. Steris had been absolutely _horrified_ to learn that her sister couldn’t do a simple waltz. Wayne just stared.

“Guess we need a new plan,” he said after a moment. He cleared his throat and pitched his voice up slightly, speaking in the clipped accent of Elendel’s nobility. “You’re certain you lost your earring around here?” He released her arm and paced halfway around a table, frowning very intently at the ground. Marasi, who was still very much wearing both of her earrings, subtly raised her hand to remove one, as people were beginning to look at them.

“I’m sure it was somewhere around here,” she said, frowning. “Oh, I can’t bear the idea of losing them—they were a gift from my grandmother.” Around them, a few partygoers glanced around at the floor, undoubtedly trying to be helpful. Wayne passed by her as he completed his circle around the table, and passed his hand over hers in a surreptitious gesture. Marasi dropped the earring into his hand as discreetly as she could, assuming he wouldn’t attempt to hold her hand for the hell of it. After some more searching, he finally held the earring up victoriously. By this point, Vadreaux had seemingly skulked off somewhere else, and they could return to their seats.

“I can’t believe you never learned how to dance.” Wayne shook his head.

“You don’t know how, either,” she insisted. 

“We’re gonna have to get you some dancing lessons. What if someone’s got a gun to your head and tells you to do a perfect waltz or he’s gonna blow your brains out?”

“I feel like the probability of that is extremely unlikely.”

“Unlikely ain’t impossible,” he said, like it was obvious. She supposed he had a point in that regard, at least. “I can see you’re just as bored as me. How many of those tiny cakes do you think we can sneak out of the party?”

Marasi gave him a look that said _This is horrendously improper and if I never get invited to any parties again in my life, it will be your fault._

* * *

The answer was somewhere around the realm of forty-three. Wayne had never really figured Marasi to be the sort who giggled, but the sound that left her mouth when they both collapsed back into her carriage was teetering dangerously close to that territory—it wasn’t a bad sound, somewhere between nervous and excited. In Wayne’s lap was an entire platter of tiny dessert cakes. He’d been on his absolute best behaviour the entire night despite how mind-numbingly boring it was. She had been right about that, but he’d be damned if he let a friend down in her time of need. A rusting saint, he was.

She was bright-eyed and her cheeks were tinged with pink. With another clear peal of laughter, she reached over, snatched a chocolate cake from the tray, and popped the whole thing into her mouth. “You know,” she said around it, which was odd considering how she usually seemed so keen on being proper. “I think that’s the most fun I’ve ever had at a party.” 

The carriage lurched into motion. Marasi had given the driver instructions to take her home first, and then bring Wayne back to Ladrian Manor. He settled back against the seat, untied his cravat, loosened the top few buttons of his shirt, and shrugged out of the fancy coat. Too new, that. A coat was no good unless it’d been lived in a bit. Marasi relaxed too, at least a little bit. “‘Course it is,” he said. “On account of you bringing me. We didn’t even get shot at this time.” Now _that_ was an accomplishment.

With a smile, Marasi shook her head. She usually sat up straight, hands folded primly in her lap. Now, she slumped slightly and stretched her feet out. It was a far cry from the way she’d seemed at the party. It was like she wore a disguise, but not quite in the way he did—where she used to pretend to be the quiet, timid noblewoman, now she let some of her brassiness through. But she was still restraining herself. There were none of the subtly snippy rejoinders he was growing used to, and definitely none of the swearing. Rich people were right weird, they were. Marasi had nothing left to hide from them, but she still felt like she had to hide in plain sight, so it was like she put on the fake version of herself.

The real Marasi slouched in front of him, going so far as to stick the tip of her finger in her mouth to suck the chocolate off. 

“I noticed something in there,” she said. “You only used your real accent when you were certain no-one else would hear.”

He shrugged. “Thought you might not want to explain why you’re bein’ accompanied by the most eligible bachelor the Roughs has to offer,” he answered with a grin. “Otherwise I’d be drowning in women. Awful way to go, drowning. Least, that’s what I hear. Ain’t never tried it before.”

“I thought you were taken,” she pointed out wryly.

“I am! That’s why bein’ drowned in women would be bad.”

An amused smile settled on Marasi’s lips. “Naturally. Anyway, I wanted you to know that you don’t have to put on accents like that when we’re out and about. _Wayne_ was invited for a reason, not some stuffy lord.”

“If I recall,” Wayne said, “ _Wayne_ was invited because your friend thinks I’m cute.”

“Be that as it may, I happen to like you just fine as you are. Eccentricities and all.” She paused, then nudged his shin lightly with the toe of her boot. “But you’re going to get me into serious trouble one of these days, so you’re still a bastard.”

“Look who’s talking,” he snorted, nudging her back with his knee. To his relief, she laughed.

The rest of the trip back to her flat was spent figuring out how to divide the platter of cakes. Marasi refused to stick her share in her handbag, which was blooming ridiculous to Wayne. Why did women have bags like that if they wouldn’t store food in them? What a waste!

They pulled up in front of her place and Wayne hopped out, offering her his hand to help her down. He knew from experience that it was damn easy to trip on skirts, and it’d be a shame to smash a face like hers up. She slipped her hand into his and stepped down from the carriage, then brushed by him to go up to her door, fishing in her handbag for the key. 

“Thank you again for escorting me,” she said. “As I said, I don’t know when the last time was I enjoyed a party so much.”

“Just doin’ my duty, ma’am.” He tipped his bowler hat to her and gave a little bow. “What kinda man would I be if I let you get escorted by some fusspot barrister? Or worse yet, a conner? Hey, speakin’ of…” Wayne turned his head as he heard the thump-thump-thump of boots on the street. He knew that sound anywhere—heavy leather constable boots hitting the cobblestones. 

“Lieutenant Colms!” A junior corporal was puffing up the street like a steam engine, and he finally stopped right in front of Marasi’s flat, huffing away. “Lieutenant Colms,” he gasped. He had to stop to rest his hands on his knees as he attempted to catch his breath. “I was sent… by Sergeant Morveau. He says… you’re to come immediately. Another murder. Like Hastings, but it’s worse.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most important part of this was Steris and Marasi. Also I love Elanor and I want her to return at some point but who kNOWS. That gala wasn't supposed to happen at all, but there it is?? 
> 
> Again, I apologise for length and also that I live to please myself. I also apologise for the lack of murder. I promise, next chapter will be 100% murder.


	5. A Church In Ruins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The killer has struck again, but this time, the M.O. is a little different--if illuminating. Can our intrepid heroes hunt down the killer before they strike again?
> 
> Feat. a whole lotta murder, some criminological discourse and crime analysis, and stealing from churches. I return to my Criminal Justice Soapbox, much to everyone's chagrin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: some mentions of suicide, a couple of very brief allusions to self harm. Also some body horror. If you can deal with murder and also Inquisitors, you should be okay; I wasn't very graphic.
> 
> This chapter is pretty much 100% murder, and we are BACK ON TRACK. Also, if you can't tell that I live for criminology and crime analysis, I really don't know what to tell you, friends. I am taking entirely too much joy in making this as criminally accurate as possible while still making it (hopefully) an interesting read.

There wasn’t enough time to change out of the formal clothing; the moment there was news of another murder, Wayne whooped and leapt to start Marasi’s motorcar, which was sitting just behind the carriage. When had he gotten her key?

“Can I drive?” He called.

“No,” Marasi sighed.

The junior corporal, still red faced and huffing, glanced up hopefully. “Can _I_ dr—”

“ _No,_ ” both Wayne and Marasi said in unison. The runner pursed his lips, disappointed.

“Morveau sent you?” Marasi asked him. He nodded. “Do you have any other errands?”

“No, ma’am. I have to report back to the sergeant.”

“You can ride with us, in that case.” 

He lit up. When he tried to clamber into the front seat, however, he was abruptly told off by Wayne. 

They made an odd trio heading to the scene of the homicide: two people in formal dress, and a red-faced uniformed corporal in the backseat.

“So,” he hemmed, glancing between Wayne and Marasi. “Hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.”

“Rusts!” Wayne exclaimed, startling the junior corporal. “We left the cakes in the carriage. The bloomin’ coachman’s gonna eat them all!”

“Maybe he’ll save them for us,” Marasi said, though she was skeptical. Drat. Those were really good cakes.

The location of the murder was another high-class neighbourhood, but this one was in the Fifth Octant, not the Fourth. The Fourth Octant Precinct didn’t have jurisdiction there for obvious reasons, but these were special circumstances in an ongoing investigation—as loath as they would be to hand a homicide over to Fourth, the Fifth Octant Precinct had little choice but to cooperate in the matter. Besides, their resources had been swamped lately with a series of mysterious arsons. Clattering across the bridge, the motorcar coughed and sputtered, displeased at having to traverse across cobblestones. As she turned into the neighbourhood that held Cett Mansion, Marasi glanced around at the proud, towering manors and followed the sounds of constables yelling to block off the area, and the telling clunk of other motorcars joining the scene. 

It was a nightmare. If Hastings had been a big deal, this was nearer to the chaos in the wake of Bleeder’s bloody arrival in Elendel. 

The constables were all gathered directly in front of Cett Mansion. Reporters and onlookers congregated in front of the blockade, pressing the officers for information to no effect.

The corporal had to help them get through, as they appeared to be civilians trying to get a peek at what was happening, but once they did, they were brought to Sergeant Morveau with little fuss. He took one glance up and down at Wayne and Marasi and muttered, “Not even gonna ask.” Beckoning them to follow him, he began walking through the mansion. They passed a number of sombre constables, wearing the bars of either a Fourth or Fifth Octant officer. “We got the message from a runner in Fifth ‘round two hours ago. Hard to tell how long ago she died.”

“She, sir?” Marasi tilted her head, frowning.

“The victim is Renna Cett, the daughter of Lord Cett. She was found in her private chambers, and… well. I’ll let the scene speak for itself. We weren’t sure it was the same killer right away, so there was some mixup between us and the Fifth. They called us over and I’m inclined to think it’s our killer. Thought you might like to see before we started fussing with the crime scene. You’re going to have to make some changes to your profile.”

Instead of asking more questions, Marasi followed Morveau to the room. “It was open this time. Doesn’t even lock from the inside,” the sergeant said as they passed through the door. “Part of the reason we didn’t think it was the same killer.”

Again, the overpowering scent of marewill hit her in a wall. 

Marasi froze in the doorway for a moment, staring at the corpse of Renna Cett.

Lady Renna Cett knelt in the middle of the room, propped up on a stool like it was an altar. Her head was back, mouth ajar. Her throat was slit, and a bloodied knife rested on the floor. Marasi approached the body, pressing her handkerchief over her nose in an attempt to block out the stench of the marewill. It looked like the knife had fallen from her hand, but it could have just been placed there. Her expression seemed to be one of pain and fear—streaks had dried into her powdered face where tears slipped down her cheeks.

And there were spikes nailed through her eyes.

Marasi looked around the room while Wayne drew nearer to Lady Cett’s corpse. It was her private room, with a bed and a bookshelf; a large room by most regards, and filled with scarlet silks and velvet furnishings.

Painted across the wall the corpse now faced was a single word.

_Heathens._

It was written with the same hand as the word on Hastings’ wall: _Liars._

 _Liars and heathens,_ Marasi thought. 

It just didn’t make sense. If it was the same person committing the murders, they had escalated quickly. Usually, a serial killer moved in smaller increments. Some waited months, even years before killing again, and if they changed their M.O., it rarely changed this much. And yet, who else could it be? The scent of marewill, words left in red paint.

“Huh. That’s interesting,” Wayne said. “She _did_ cut her own throat.”

“What makes you say that?” Despite her better judgment, Marasi approached the body. She didn’t think she would ever get used to the sight. Even though she could handle gore, it didn’t mean she liked having to see it. She didn’t have to deal with many bodies when it came to crime analysis, and that was a blessing. 

“Look at this,” Wayne pointed to the incision on Lady Cett’s throat. “It’s angled a little higher on her left side, and deeper there, too.”

“No hesitation marks to show a struggle,” Marasi murmured.

“Hang on, what’s this?” Wayne leaned in a little closer to Lady Cett’s face and began to pry her mouth open before Marasi could protest. The complaints died on her tongue as she saw something in the corpse’s mouth. “You got smaller fingers than me, mate. Want to do the honours?”

“I’ll pass, thank you.”

Shrugging, Wayne slipped his index finger and thumb into the woman’s mouth to retrieve whatever has been lodged there. What he removed was—or used to be—the bud of a marewill flower. “Like we found in Hastings’ coat,” Marasi said.

Morveau came over to investigate, the frown settling over his eyes like storm clouds. “Marewill again? Damn. This can’t be the same person, can it? It’s too different. Near as we can tell, those spikes were put through her eyes after she died. But you said she cut her own throat?”

“It can’t be a copycat,” said Marasi. “We kept news of the marewill from the broadsheets. The writing is the same, too. Might we have multiple killers? It would certainly explain the sudden change. The other crime scene was relatively clean. There was no hint of sadism. It might as well have been wrapped with a nice bow and hand-delivered to the constabulary. This is…” She trailed off, gesturing at the scene. Mutilation indicated an enormous amount of rage toward the victim, or whatever the victim represented. This was chaos. _Heathens._ Why were spikes nailed through Lady Cett’s eyes? “Why would someone cut their own throat?”

“Blackmail?” Wayne offered. 

“The killer probably had some sort of leverage over her,” Morveau agreed. “Can’t imagine what other reason it could be.”

Marasi brought her notebook out of her handbag and began writing. “Sir, how were there no witnesses? The body has been here long enough for rigor mortis to set in.” She pointed to the stiffness of the corpse with her pencil. 

“The family was out,” Morveau explained. “They didn’t notice anything strange—Lady Cett keeps to her own schedule. The maid was the one to find the body. She claims she went in to tidy up at a complaint from her parents about the marewill, but the maid was hesitant to do so. Evidently, Renna Cett does not like it when people are in her space.”

“No wonder,” Wayne said from the other side of the room. He held up a little box of gilded card stock he found in the woman’s vanity. “Think I know why she’s got spikes through her eyes.”

Marasi went to his side, peering at the cards. They were invitations to meetings—Sliverist meetings.

_Heathens._

“I need to change the profile,” Marasi murmured.

*** * ***

“These must be religiously motivated,” Marasi said excitedly, pacing back and forth in the break room. Wax always paced, too. People just didn’t understand that when you wanted to think, you were s’posed to lie down. Something about the blood pooling to your head or some such nonsense. More importantly, it gave Wayne an excuse to lay down and take a nap. Thinking! Useless stuff, that.

The conners were stirring up hell outside of the break room, thrown into a tizzy in the wake of a new murder. Marasi was still theorizing despite the fact that her shift wasn’t supposed to start for another five or so hours, which was fine normally, only Wayne _really_ wanted a nap and the pacing was distracting. One of the windows had its blinds cracked, and the sunlight was beginning to peek shyly over the windowsill. It might’ve been nice if its peeking didn’t stab sunbeams _directly_ into Wayne’s eyes.

He tilted his hat down over his face, blocking out the sun. His stomach growled. It had been a good few hours since the cakes. Had any of the conners called for scones? If not, what was the point of them being around?

He made a quiet noise of encouragement like he did whenever Wax was theorizing, but Marasi didn’t seem to need it as she barrelled onward. “The marewill is our most important signature—a symbol of Survivorism. The way our victims died may also be a significant part of the killer’s signature, too—Kelsier himself chose self-sacrifice.” She paused nearly mid-stride, crossed her arms, and frowned. “But to what end?”

“The messages,” Wayne mumbled absently. The constabulary needed better couches. This one was an abomination to couches everywhere. Its lumps had lumps. 

“On the walls? Yes, we know the killer is trying to send us a message, but there’s… a disconnect. Between the act of the murder and the messages. Normally, making it look like a suicide—a self-sacrifice—would be indicative of atonement. These people are liars and heathens, in the killer’s eyes, but by that logic, by the act of killing themselves, it should be enough to make up for their sins. In that case, the mutilation seen in Lady Cett wouldn’t be necessary. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Yeah, but it ain’t atonement. It’s a warning.”

“Oh, of course!” From the sounds of it, Marasi smacked her forehead lightly. Wayne didn’t see—he was too busy trying to sleep. “These are the sorts of people our murderer is targeting. Heathens make sense, but liars? From what I’ve read, Kelsier wasn’t precisely the most honest fellow.”

“Don’t matter if you’re an extremist. Think about it. You’re just some poor bloke in a rich man’s world. You might be a killer or a thief or a liar, but if you didn’t choose that life, it’s real easy to blame someone else for it. The Survivor did it, why can’t this murderer? The crime ain’t as bad if you’re just doin’ what needs to be done, but if you’re rich folk like Hastings and Cett, you ain’t got an excuse for bein’ scum.” Wayne paused. “‘Cept, y’know, for the part where you’re rich folk. That’s usually all the excuse a bloke needs.”

“So,” Marasi said slowly. “This murderer is a crusader. Weeding out who he perceives to be the enemy based on Survivorist teachings… that every man must make his own way, idealizing self-reliance and equality.”

“Yeah, but kick that up a couple notches and add a healthy dose of crazy.”

“Wayne, you really are a genius sometimes.” She sounded impressed.

“That’s what I keep tellin’ everyone.” He sniffled slightly and then shot bolt upright, startling Marasi, who opened her mouth to ask if something was wrong. Wayne retreated from the break room and hunted down the source of the smell. Scones had arrived, and suddenly the day seemed a mite better. When he returned, Marasi was watching him in amusement. He offered her a scone, which she took with only a moment’s hesitation. “So why’re you so sure this is a man?”

“It’s too messy. In Elendel’s history, you’ll notice we have very few serial killers who are women. The ones we do have are motivated and very, very precise. Their victims are usually killed cleanly. Poison, most often. I don’t think we’ve ever had a woman serial killer who has shown aggression on the level that we just saw with Lady Cett. The coroner claims that it was done post-mortem, but it’s still a sign of extreme violence. Mutilation is a clear way of saying the killer hates the victim for some reason.”

Wayne nodded. They had very few female killers in the Roughs, too; the ones they had were almost always victims of abuse, or acting in defence of their kids. “I still don’t understand what the spikes were supposed to add,” Marasi said, sounding vaguely distant—talking aloud, probably. “The imagery is disjointed. Or is it just the added animosity of knowing that the Lord Ruler was the Survivor’s enemy?”

“Explains the escalation.”

Marasi gave him a look as he munched on his scone. “What?” He said, his mouth full of pastry. “I pay attention to your fancy crime lingo sometimes. Point is, he’s not gonna stop until he’s delivered his message.”

“Do you really think it would stop, even then?” She raised an eyebrow, staring intently in his direction. He glanced up at her.

“Nah. Never happens. Crusader, you called ‘im?” Marasi nodded. “We had a few of those, too. They don’t stop until they’re caught… or dead.”

With Elendel’s laws, they usually ended up in front of a firing squad, anyway, and it was better that way. That was the sort of treatment killers deserved.

Unfortunately for the law, Wayne was the sort who just got right back up with a bullet buried in his chest. 

Wayne leaned back on the couch as Marasi sat down beside him, thoughtfully nibbling on her scone. “So what’s next?” He asked. “Since I gotta play by your rules for now.”

“Murderer profiles are… admittedly rather useless,” Marasi confessed, a faint blush staining her cheeks pink. “But, I think the victim profile will be most helpful at this point. We’ll have to dig back into Lord Hastings’ personal life to see what reason he has for being called a liar. I would assume it is because of his deception surrounding worker wages, but it could be deeper than that. More importantly, we have somewhere to start looking now. How do you feel about going to church?”

“I’ve been told that it could only do me good. I’m inclined to disagree, on account of how amazing I already am.”

*** * ***

Since Marasi wasn’t technically a field constable, she wasn’t allowed to go around looking into the Sliverists, which was admittedly somewhat regrettable. Although she didn’t know how much she’d want to deal with borderline cultists, Sliverism was interesting to her in the way serial killers were interesting. She wondered what they would think if they knew that their herald, Ironeyes himself, occasionally ran errands for Harmony.

Despite the actual field constables being sent to see if they could track down any of Lady Cett’s Sliverist contacts, Marasi and Wayne _were_ allowed to ask around at the Survivorist chapels. Marasi mostly asked standard questions—where they got their marewill, where their incense came from, if it was something that could simply be acquired anywhere. Unfortunately, wherever they asked, the story seemed to be that yes, it could be acquired anywhere. Marasi knew from experience that marewill was a popular scent in perfumes, too, and they had not been able to place the source of the scent, perfume or otherwise. To be on the safe side, she also asked about teachings within each church, as doctrines could vary slightly between churches. Any place that taught extreme points of view could have been where a member of the congregation found the motivation to act against his or her perceived enemies. However, she had to be careful about how she phrased her questions; such radicalization could easily come from any high-ranking member of the church, many of which they were questioning. It wouldn’t do to spook the killer.

The sixth place they stopped was a quiet little chapel in the inner Fourth. By this point, Marasi was growing tired, and asking the same questions while Wayne poked around the chapels was becoming rather boring. Nobody seemed to be present in the main sanctuary of the church, and Marasi’s patience was waning—she was just thinking about how she should have had a few cups of tea before heading out, and ready to turn back to the constabulary to complete the victim profile, when a man entered through a side door, glancing around. 

He was about Wayne’s age, with dark hair and what looked like some Terris lineage—interesting, considering the church he was currently in. Most Terrispeople followed the Path. The man was tall and _quite_ handsome, and he smiled brightly at them as he walked out of the side room. “Oh, hello,” he said in a voice that was smooth and soft as silk. “I thought I heard someone out here.” 

His eyes rested briefly on Marasi’s outfit; she felt her cheeks turn pink, realising how she must look. She had been hoping she would get the chance to pop home and change into her uniform beforehand, but hadn’t been given the option. When murders happened, everything else became an afterthought. With two nobles murdered within a month, nobody even cared if she was in a formal gown while she was asking questions. Usually, Marasi left an extra uniform at work, but she had just brought the skirt and dress shirt home to do laundry the other day, and all she had was her jacket with her lieutenant’s bars. So, there she was, wearing a constable’s jacket over her nice blue dress for the gala, standing in a Survivorist church on a day with no service. 

Wayne only added to the oddity. He was still wearing his formalwear, too, albeit _very_ rumpled formalwear, and he had somehow procured his signature duster, shucking his fine jacket Survivor knew where.

The man took it in with little more than a smile. “Can I help you… Constable?”

“Constable Colms,” Marasi said, reaching out to shake his hand. He quickly bridged the space between them and shook her hand gently. “I do apologise for my appearance. It has been a rather hectic day at the constabulary.”

“Yes, I imagine so. I saw all about the murder in the morning broadsheets.” His brow creased and he shook his head. “Such a terrible thing. Oh, pardon me. Where are my manners?” His smile returned. He had dazzlingly white teeth. “Kelrose Colt.” Marasi’s brows rose a fraction at the name, and he gave a small laugh that sounded vaguely apologetic. “I know, my parents have an awful sense of humour. I’m, um, not actually the priest here, but my father is. He’s out at the moment, but I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

Marasi smiled back and continued with the routine line of questioning—marewill, where it could be acquired, what sort of teachings they employed in the church. He explained that while his father was the leader of the church, he frequently stepped in to give sermons, and he ran a group for the youth of Elendel—not necessarily religiously motivated, but as a way to give young people some hope and motivation. “Youth homelessness is on the rise in Elendel, as I’m sure you know, Constable,” he said. She nodded. 

By this point, Wayne had wandered over to listen; Marasi’s gaze strayed to him as she noticed him pocket a candle. Kelrose continued talking. “Young people are finding it increasingly difficult to stay positive in situations like this—with all of the job losses and economic cutbacks, those entering adulthood tend to get the short end of the stick. At times like this, I find that the Survivor’s teachings are beneficial. His message was, after all, one of hope in spite of adversity.”

“Of course,” Marasi said.

“What kinda age ranges are you dealin’ with in this group?” Wayne piped up. Marasi glanced over at him again, but kept quiet. She was beginning to realise that even though his methods were rather unorthodox, he did follow his own particular brand of logic. A method behind the madness, as it were. If Wax trusted him enough to go off and do his own investigating, she could extend him the same courtesy.

“It depends,” said the man. “Some of them are fairly young, say, eleven to twelve. I do have some older folks involved, too, however—closer to my age. So I suppose I can’t say it’s strictly youth. The way I’ve organised it, we do some community work once a week. I find it helps in giving these people some form of direction. Builds community relationships, that sort of thing.”

Marasi nodded appreciatively. Increasing a person’s connection to their community was another proven way of reducing crime, and by establishing a means for the youth to form networks, it gave them a sort of safety net in case they were in danger of going off the deep end. 

“Huh, sounds like it’s right up your alley,” Wayne said to Marasi, who frowned faintly. “When d’you meet?”

“Are you interested in joining us?” Mr. Colt perked up visibly, cheeks dimpling with his smile. 

“Unemployment affects us all,” sighed Wayne, sounding uncharacteristically wise and beleaguered. That tone led Marasi to believe that he was planning something. What, though, she couldn’t begin to guess. “Plus, my mate here has been feelin’ pretty directionless lately.” He nodded his head at Marasi. She scowled at him.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of! We would love to have some new faces.” Mr. Colt proceeded to explain when and where they were going to meet that week, shook their hands warmly, and they continued on their way. 

As Marasi started the motorcar up, she noticed that Wayne wasn’t getting into the passenger’s side—instead, he clambered into the back and started rummaging around. She glanced away for a moment to slide into the driver’s seat, and nearly jumped when she saw that Wayne was in his usual outfit. Where the hell had he stashed it? He climbed back out of the vehicle. “What are you doing?” She asked, frowning.

“Investigatin’. What’s it look like I’m doing?”

She gave him a pointed look. “This killer’s real mad at people who don’t follow Survivorism, right? So’s it stands to reason he’d learn everything he’d need to know from a group like that. Who’s gonna be madder at rich folks than the poor folks who ain’t got much chance of movin’ up in the world?”

Marasi hesitated. She’d liked Mr. Colt, but Wayne did have a point. Finally, she set her shoulders and stared up at him, firm. “I’m coming with you.”

“No offence or anythin’, Marasi, but you ain’t exactly dressed to fit in.”

“You may have a point.” She pressed her lips together and sighed. Oh, well. She supposed she could go and complete her victim profile—and stop off back home for a change of clothing along the way. Finally, she couldn’t restrain it any longer. “‘Unemployment affects us all?’” She repeated his words from earlier.

Wayne grinned. “Sure. The effect it has on me’s that I don’t hafta waste time workin’.”

“Naturally. Be careful, please? And do stop by the constabulary if you discover anything.”

“Gotcha.” 

“And try not to break anything, like someone’s window, or someone’s arm.”

He sucked in a deep breath that very clearly said ‘you’re asking an awful lot of me, mate; you know it’s gonna be one or the other,’ and Marasi pinched the bridge of her nose. “If it’s between the two, I’d prefer you break a window. At least then we won’t have to deal with assault charges on top of the mess of paperwork.”

“Y’know there’s an easy way to fix that, right?”

“I don’t think burning down the constabulary is an efficient way to get out of paperwork.”

“I was gonna say piss on it, but you’re right, arson’s more ladylike.”

There was that inconvenient blush again. One would think that after a year of constant exposure to Wayne’s sense of humour, she would be fully immune to it. Something to work on, she supposed. “Check in later if you find something. If I’m not at the constabulary, you can always leave a message on my desk.”

Wayne shrugged and strolled out of sight, seemingly headed behind the chapel. Marasi eased the throttle of the motorcar forward, quickly stopped at home to change into her uniform, and returned back to the precinct offices. Once there, she began to dig through every scrap of information she had on the victims once again. The killer had to know them somehow, if he was using something as leverage. At the very least, he was surveilling them before making his move. That took time, resources. In that case, it could go either way—the unemployed and down-on-their-luck in the city certainly had no lack of motivation or time, but they would be noticed unless they had some sort of disguise to get in and out.

Marasi shook her head. Conjecture. Killer profiles were only useful so far as they could be proven. Without evidence, Reddi would never acknowledge any work she did on the profile. She had to focus on victimology instead.

Wading through broadsheet clippings, eyewitness accounts, bank statements, and personal correspondence was a tedious chore, but one she didn’t mind overmuch. Although to some it was boring, she enjoyed picking through the patterns people left behind, the fault lines of their lives—occasionally she would find the one crack that fell slightly out of place. Lady Cett was a Sliverist, so she was a heathen. But why was Lord Hastings targeted for being a liar? The obvious answer was that he was lying about the wages the paid his workers, but if that were the case, she would never be able to weed the killer out of the cheated workers in his factories.

What sort of secret would be worth killing yourself over?

*** * ***

That Kelrose bloke didn’t sit right with Wayne. He smiled too much, and people who always showed their teeth like that were always, in Wayne’s experience, hiding somethin’ awful behind them. 

Plus, fancy churches like this usually had fancy wine behind the altar. Now, he wasn’t an exceptionally religious man, but he could get behind a god that encouraged the consumption of spirits in church. The problem was, he could also do that _without_ goin’ to church. In Wayne’s best estimation, services were only good for getting a good nap in. 

Huh. Booze _and_ a good napping place. Maybe religion wasn’t such a bad bet, after all. But then again, the benches was real uncomfortable, and people got testy if you started snoring. He’d tried sleeping in a few churches back in the Roughs when he needed a few winks, but after the last time, he didn’t have much motivation to try it again. Nobody’d ever told him that old ladies getting offended at your “incorrigible bad attitude and disrespect for god” had such good aim with their handbags, and such strong right hooks, too. 

Now, Wayne had nothing against doing good by the disadvantaged. God Beyond knew that he saw enough of the poverty and unrest that stirred queasily in the lowest levels of Elendel. Seemed to him that sorta thing was everywhere—both here and in the Roughs, the shadowed alleyways between buildings were populated with the gaunt, sunken faces and hollow eyes of the people who were overlooked by the rest. He skulked through those same alleyways, absorbed their hunger and their haunt. That sort of thing was easy for him in a way it never was or would be for people like Wax, even Marasi. Not that it was their fault, really. 

In any case, whatever this Colt fellow was trying to do, it sounded good. But, if there was one thing Wayne knew for sure, it was that the way things _sounded_ and the way things _were_ wasn’t always one and the same. He could dress up his accent and put on a pretty suit, but that didn’t make him a nobleman. Same thing with religious folk—no matter how you spit-shined the surface, it didn’t make you a saint. 

There was a side door to the church—after checking nearby windows to make sure nobody was around, he rattled the doorknob. Keeping his ear pressed to the door, he waited for a good minute, and then slowly opened the door and slipped inside. It was pretty typical as far as churches went; no dead bodies or nothin’, which was either a real good thing or a real bad thing depending on where your priorities were.

Upon further searching, Wayne found a whole lot of nothing. It was just a regular old church. He _did_ manage to find the wine, though, and he traded that for the candle he’d acquired earlier. He took a swig and made a face. It wasn’t even the good stuff. What was the point? The flask in his pocket could get the job done in half the time, with half the liquor. 

As he browsed behind the pulpit, he redirected his attention to the door Kelrose appeared from earlier. He’d probably gone back once Wayne and Marasi left. Even though he didn’t spend a lot of time in churches, he thought he recognised the door as a private prayer room of sorts. There was probably some special place in hell for folk who eavesdropped on other folk’s prayers, but Wayne inched toward the door anyway. Judging by the lack of visible hinges from where he was standing, it opened inward, which was a bit of a problem if he wanted to put up a speed bubble to check inside. 

Aw, rusts. What the hell, right? 

He burned bendalloy and threw up a small speed bubble, just enough for him to stand right beside the door and crack it open. He peeked in as much as he dared. The room was small, but not so much that it caught the man in his speed bubble—Kelrose was a good three feet away from the edge of the bubble, prostrated on the ground in prayer. His arms were splayed before him, much in the same way Lady Cett’s had been, and his shirtsleeves had been rolled up just slightly. If Wayne squinted, he could see the faint, pale lines of lengthwise scars on the man’s forearms. They were all old, overlapping, and the way the fellow held them out toward the altar in front of him… definitely a sign of reverence.

 _Well, that’s something,_ Wayne thought. He scanned the rest of the room, saw nothing of note, and closed it quietly before dropping the speed bubble.

The rest of the church was a bust. There was some bread in a back room, but it was mostly stale. Wayne took another pull from the wine and left. Investigating this guy in earnest would have to wait until they went to his meetings or whatever. For now, Wayne had other important business to be about. 

*** * ***

Marasi jumped a good foot in the air when Wayne slammed a pamphlet down on the desk in front of her. She hurriedly straightened her jacket and smoothed her hair. She also may have wiped a tiny trail of drool from the corner of her mouth. It was his own fault for catching her as she was… sleeping, at her desk. Alright, so perhaps it was entirely her fault, but she still levelled a disapproving look at him.

“Wayne… is that a bottle of wine? How did you get that past the— no, never mind.” She rubbed at her eyes. After catching up on the days without sleep during the Hastings murder, now she was going to have to pull _another_ series of all-nighters. The unspoken 48-hour rule was really unkind to constables who were already partway through a shift when a murder happened, or even for those who had been doing something beforehand. “What did you find?”

“Only the most excitin’ thing you’ll ever lay eyes on.”

Too tired to quip back, Marasi glanced down at the brochure. “This is… a brochure for dancing classes.” Her stomach sank to her feet and she felt a spike of panic. “Oh, no.”

“Yep. You’re signed up for lessons. I ain’t gonna let no mate of mine get by not knowing how to dance.”

“You don’t know how to do a waltz, either,” she retorted, frowning up at him. 

“I know more than you do,” he pointed out, not unkindly. “But you got a point there. That’s why I’m signed up, too.”

“Oh, _no_.”

“Oh, yeah.” He offered her the bottle of wine, and she seriously considered it for a second before declining. “Also, you heard anything ‘bout those Survivorists that take religion a mite too seriously and start scarrin’ their arms like the Survivor?”

Marasi momentarily set her embarrassment aside and replaced it with curiosity. “I’ve heard of it, yes, but I haven’t seen any evidence of it. Why?”

“I’m willing to put money on that Kelrose guy bein’ one of ‘em. A radical, like our killer is.”

Interesting. Definitely not anything concrete for the field constables to look into, but… “You think he might have something to do with it?”

“No clue,” Wayne said, quite confidently. “But it’s as good a bet as any. If he’s involved with some extremist cult, even if he’s not the killer, he might be in contact with whoever _is._ ”

“We can’t look into it officially. Not without proper evidence for the investigators.”

“Well, then, it’s a damn good thing we ain’t proper investigators, ain’t it?”

He offered her the bottle again with a grin. This time, Marasi cast a furtive glance around the constabulary, saw that nobody was watching them, and took a sip. Wayne’s grin widened. “Great. Now go tell Reddi you’ve got dance classes.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Hannah, wanna answer a few questions? (No.) Too bad, you're going to answer them anyway. Why did you use M.O., for 'modus operandi,' when Latin pretty much definitely doesn't exist in Elendel? (Shut up I do what I want.) Also, you did take an entire class on crime analysis and countless classes that deal with serial killers, right? (Yeah, why?) Do you want to share with the class how much you were bullshitting when you called that guy a 'crusader?' (Okay you know what I lost my notes for that lecture so that's PROBABLY what they're called. BALANCE OF PROBABILITIES.)
> 
> Ahem. If you're wondering when Wayne and Marasi are going to kiss, that's a really good question. I'm having too much fun with MURDER.
> 
> (EDIT: okay, for the curious, this particular sort of serial killer is called a 'visionary' which also makes sense. However, this one in particular also crosses into the realm of the 'mission-oriented' serial killer, AND criminology in Elendel is probably slightly different from ours, so, ARTISTIC LIBERTY)


	6. Sharp As All My Sins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marasi and Wayne join a group for wayward youth, make a deal, and go dancing, not necessarily in that order. Crime stuff should pick up more in the next chapter, but this was basically just some of the painful in-between stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEW YEAR, NEW CHAPTER!
> 
> You have no idea how much power the released BoM chapters are giving me. I have SIX MONTHS to work with, and a lot can happen in six months. Unfortunately, I was also planning an exchange basically exactly like the one that happens in Ch. 2 of BoM, so THAT has been promptly derailed (but like, in the best way possible).
> 
> We'll see how much can happen between now and the release of BoM. We'll see how much BoM ruins (or helps??) everything. This hasn't been edited and I'm sorry.

It was a damn good thing Wayne was a bloodmaker, because Marasi’s dancing was _brutal_ on his toes. He was starting to think that the next time he and Wax made some enemies, their best bet would be to make the poor sods go to dancing lessons with Marasi.

No, actually, on second thought, it should be considered somethin’ like “cruel and unusual punishment.” Wayne didn’t know he hated anyone—even himself—enough to subject their feet to this torture.

“Stop lookin’ down at your feet.”

“If I don’t”—Wayne barely winced as she trod on his instep—“I’m going to step on your foot.”

“You just did, mate.”

“It’s going to happen again.”

“It’s already _happened_ again the past hundred times. Stop lookin’ at your feet!”

The teacher, a severe-looking woman who was built like an ox and constantly looked like she’d eaten a whole barrel of pickles, scowled at them and stopped in the middle of counting the steps. “Excuse me, do you two have something better to be doing?”

Marasi stared _very_ hard at Wayne in a way he interpreted as ‘yes, Wayne, do we have something better to be doing? Like solving a homicide, perhaps?’ which was, frankly, a real condescendin’ thing to not-say to a bloke, ‘specially one what was doing her a favour. “No, sorry, ma’am,” Wayne said, but only after Marasi stepped on his foot. Deliberately. The nerve!

With a harsh look, the teacher resumed her counting. Dancing was pretty easy as far as things went. It wasn’t like voices, where you could round off a vowel just a mite too much, and the whole thing would be ruined. Every dance was like a different accent. It was the same thing, you just had to arrange the steps different.

That said, Marasi wasn’t _that_ bad at it; she was just thinking about it too hard. How could a woman plug a man with a bullet to his brain from fifty yards without breaking a sweat, but kept stomping on Wayne’s toes during a simple waltz?

“ _One-two-three, one-two-three,_ ” the instructor counted.

“Eyes,” Wayne reminded Marasi. Defiantly, she lifted her chin and fixed him with a look that probably should’ve had him shaking in his boots. Sometimes, with stubborn folk, you had to poke at ‘em a bit until their stubbornness got the best of them. He did it with Wax all the time, and Marasi was just as stubborn.

There was a marked improvement once she stopped staring at her feet, and it gave Wayne the opportunity to notice other things once his toes were no longer fearing for their lives. Luckily, she wasn’t all that heavy, so it didn’t feel like anything was broken. Yet. That was subject to change, especially since she was still mad at him about the dancing lessons in the first place.

Her gaze faltered a little as it locked with his, like her eyes kept wanting to look anywhere else. Rude. That probably wasn’t completely her fault, either, though, since all those snobby blokes up at the University were so keen on separating the boys and girls. Bein’ so close to such a fine specimen of masculinity’d be enough to fluster any woman.

Her hands was real soft, not like women up in the Roughs, who always had callouses from doing good, honest work. Not that Marasi did _dis_ honest work, but… where was he going with that again? Oh, right. Maybe she used a cream or something. He should get a name from her—holding his hand was probably like holding sandpaper.

Like her hands, the rest of her seemed real small compared to him, too. It was no wonder that the awful blokes they encountered always targeted her. Anybody who underestimated her was in for a real unpleasant surprise, though. A woman who stole the sausages right off a bloke’s plate was a real force to be reckoned with.

She stumbled a little, likely more from nerves than from anything else. Wayne steadied her, and was stepped on for his efforts. He grunted.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, blushing.

“You looked at your feet.”

“I thought you’d be worse at this.” She didn’t sound judgmental, just… disappointed? Like she was _hoping_ he wouldn’t be good at dancing. Too bad for her, he was rustin’ incredible at everything. She couldn’t help it—there was no way she could’ve won this one.

“Miss Colms! Mister Wayne!”

The counting—and the music—stopped abruptly. The instructor glared their way.

“Sorry. Her fault.” Wayne nodded his head at Marasi.

This time, she kicked him in the shin, and it definitely wasn’t an accident.

*** * ***

“I can’t believe you roped me into that,” Marasi grumbled once their lesson was over.

“It wasn’t all that bad,” Wayne said with a grin.

“For _you._ ”

“She says, to the bloke what she stepped on too many times to count.”

“It was like… six times, Wayne.”

“I sure ain’t gonna count that high.”

Marasi rolled her eyes. She thought she was getting better at understanding Wayne’s specific brand of humour. With him, there was a fine line between the humour and the truth—he was a weird conundrum of truth coated in layer upon layer of whimsy, and whimsy that pointedly circumnavigated the truth. She could remember one point in particular when he claimed he couldn’t read, and she believed him until she remembered what he said about receiving letters from the family of the man he killed. Sometimes, it seemed like he wasn’t too keen on letting her forget. As a result, she was beginning to realise that she had to pay close attention to what he said in order to make any sense of him whatsoever.

She’d made the mistake of believing the charade before, and she did not want to make it again. Perhaps there was a part of her—a small part, but a part nonetheless—that still wanted to impress Wax and Wayne, even if they were dramatically different from her initial expectation.

From the dance lesson, they took a cab to the Survivorist church.

“So what, exactly, _is_ the plan?” She asked on the way.

“We’re goin’ undercover,” Wayne said with a confident grin.

“Hang on. I thought you said I was too pretty for that sort of thing.”

“Yeah.” Wayne nodded, then frowned. “Wait, no. Well, yeah, but not— look, here’s the plan.”

Marasi couldn’t help it; she found herself smiling. To fluster Wayne, even momentarily, was no small feat. “Right, so we’re gonna pretend like we’re real interested in what this bloke’s got to say. Fellow like him might have some sort of inner circle.”

“He could be acting alone,” Marasi answered, but she didn’t sound convinced. It was true that these ideas of radicalism had to come from somewhere. “But I see your point. I’ll ask around to see how long everyone has been involved with Mr. Colt’s group. This _could_ very easily be nothing, you know.”

“The way I figure,” Wayne said, “it’s either nothin’ or it’s somethin’. Fifty-fifty chance either way. Anyway, that Kelrose bloke just ain’t right.”

Marasi frowned a little, but she nodded slowly. She was guided by the presence of evidence and solid theory, but she knew how Wayne worked and trusted that he—hopefully—knew what he was doing. People who had worked as lawkeepers or constables for a long time often got an instinctual feel for people, and more often than not, their gut assessments were correct. In a way, they were following patterns much like she did, guided by a long line of experience.

The carriage lurched to a stop in front of the church. Wayne helped her down and Marasi dug in her handbag for some coins to hand up to the cabbie.

As they entered the church, Wayne leaned in to whisper, “Try not to act like such a conner.” Marasi responded by stomping on his foot. Lightly. For old time's sake.

“My friends! You came after all!” Marasi smoothed it over with a smile as she saw Mr. Colt approaching them with his own signature warm smile. Rusts, he _was_ an attractive man, wasn’t he? “Miss Colms, was it?” He stretched his hand out to clasp hers gently, and went so far as to give a small bow before moving on to greet Wayne. “And Mr…?

“Just Wayne’ll do nicely,” Wayne said, also smiling in a friendly manner and shaking Kelrose’s hand. The two men began chatting amiably, giving Marasi a chance to look around.

It wasn’t a large group, only about ten in total including her and Wayne. Most were around her age or a little younger. Two or three appeared to be closer to Wayne’s age, in their early to mid thirties. They talked amongst each other with a measure of familiarity, and glanced over at her and Wayne with definite uncertainty.

From what she could tell, it was something of a motley crew. Their clothes indicated working-class families, possibly from the inner Fourth or Fifth. Wayne would be able to tell better than her; he’d likely listen to each of them for a minute and be able to pick their mothers out of a crowd. Knowing this, Marasi focused on other things—group dynamics, what made individuals stand out from the group, anything that might make someone into an outlier.

Most of the young people socialised with their peers. There were more young men than women, and most of the girls kept to themselves or talked quietly to the other young ladies present. The only exception to this was the woman who sat in the pews with two other gentlemen—these three were the ones who seemed to be in their thirties. She was quite beautiful, with dark hair and eyes and a serene face. From the tailoring of her dress, she was well-off too. As she spoke, it was clear, even from a distance, that she was accustomed to having the ear of those around her. Marasi could only wish for that level of poise.

Kelrose introduced them—the woman’s name was Shanna, and she was his assistant. Introductions out of the way, they all walked down to a soup kitchen down the street. Marasi watched as Wayne made the rounds. The group’s uncertainty faded, and soon he had gathered a group of at least five who found themselves laughing as he told an outrageous story he swore was true. Marasi couldn’t help a small smile. Wayne was nothing short of bizarre, but there was an element of magic to the way he could relate to people. It was so natural for him, like breathing.

“Miss Colms?”

Marasi turned to see Kelrose at her elbow. She flashed a smile. “Call me Marasi, please. May I help you?”

“Oh, no.” He had dark, earnest eyes, and an open, caring face. “Your… friend?” Kelrose indicated Wayne; Marasi nodded. “Was saying the last time we met that you were having some… doubts about your current path in life. Is that true?”

Marasi tried not to bristle. As a matter of fact, for once, she was _pleased_ with where her life was going—she was claiming independence from her father’s disappointment and her mother’s expectation, from the preconceptions that had been placed on her since birth.

Wayne didn’t think she could do undercover work? Well, she _did_ know what it was like to be discontented with her lack of agency. She worried her lower lip briefly, recalling that sickly, unsettled helplessness.

“I suppose I’ve always felt as though my path was being chosen for me by other powers,” she confessed. “As if my future is limited by blood and birth… all of these things that I cannot control have seemingly stripped away all of my agency.”

It felt strange to admit things she had already conquered, for the most part. She still doubted, sometimes, that her accomplishments had been due to her own skill, but she had made it this far and that counted for something.

“Is that what led you to the church of the Survivor?”

With a small smile, Marasi shook her head. “Most of my family is from the Survivorist church. Still, I suppose the philosophies behind Survivorism should be personally appealing.”

“Should be?” Kelrose repeated gently.

Her smile widened a fraction. “I find that the Survivor’s teachings are easier preached than practiced.”

“That’s fair enough. Is that not the case with all philosophies, though? It is putting these ideals into practice that makes them so potent—and so admirable. Nothing worth doing is easy.”

Marasi nodded. The struggle to find her own place in society was a long one, and she was just getting to the point where she was happy with where she was. It was still a struggle, but it was one that she had moved toward of her own volition—with a little encouragement, maybe.

She remembered the way that the other constables treated her and her stomach churned. _Well,_ she thought, _it’s better than where I was. And it_ will _improve._

Kelrose continued talking, his expression distant. “Working in the church, I see a lot of people facing the same doubts. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I hadn’t felt them, too, but I find that the Survivor’s teachings are invaluable when I’m experiencing a lack of direction or motivation. His was a message of hope, even in the bleakest circumstances—that even though darkness surrounds us, we can still step forward and bring change, whether to the world, or simply to ourselves. No matter how terrible the world around us is, there is always hope.”

 _Hope did technically die that day,_ Marasi thought, though she kept it to herself. “Ah,” Kelrose said, brightening. They were approaching the soup kitchen. “Here we are.” He paused to gently pull her inside, giving her an earnest smile. “If you ever need someone to talk to, I would gladly lend an ear. I understand that it is very difficult for some people to find their true calling in life, andthat is, in part, why I am so passionate about working with the youth.” He gestured to them as they all filtered inside, guided by Shanna. “I love helping them find purpose. You strike me as a very intelligent young woman, but everyone has their moments.”

A strange feeling of unease stirred queasily in Marasi’s gut, but she smiled. “Of course. I may take you up on your generous offer.”

*** * ***

The next hour or so was filled with bustling around the soup kitchen, spooning out servings to the most misfortunate of Elendel’s inner Fourth Octant. It was work Marasi enjoyed; sometimes, she hunted Wayne down, and found him listening to the stories of those he served, and she would linger for a while to listen as well. Wayne was, predictably, very good at the work—he was so personable that others found themselves drawn to him and the friendly, confident way he engaged in conversation. Here, he was in his element. He related to these people with no effort whatsoever, instantly put them at ease by mirroring their accents and dropping jokes that made them snort laughter into their soup bowls.

Marasi smiled to herself as she went about her own duties, making light conversation where she could. Kelrose stuck close to her, occasionally pausing to chatter pleasantly about how proud he was of his youth group and how excellent Wayne seemed to be. “I must admit, I am a little surprised that he’s not sticking closer to your side, Marasi,” he said. “I was under the impression that you two might be…” He gestured vaguely with his soup ladle.

“Together?” Marasi finished. She made a little sound that might have been horror or amusement, or some unholy union of the two. “No, we aren’t. He’s used to going off and doing his own thing. I’ve learned not to question it.”

She noticed as Wayne cast a subtle glance over at her, but he didn’t approach them. Kelrose continued. “Might I ask what led you to join the constabulary?” He asked. “Or is that simply where you have been led for the time being?” He gave a lopsided smile. _Rusts._ That was a _nice_ smile. Fortunately, Marasi was still faintly uncomfortable with the amount of questions he asked—he seemed a friendly fellow, but perhaps it was her deception that put her on edge. It was difficult to keep track of lies, and in her interviewing classes, she had been taught how to look signs that a client was trying to spin a story.

There were no proven methods to catch a liar in the act—pulse-checking and darting eyes worked for some, but others were practiced liars and knew how to get around it. Still, even the most talented liars couldn’t always keep their stories straight, and that often did them in, in the end. The easiest way to get away with a falsehood was to bury it in the truth.

She smiled. “I mostly do analysis work. I suppose you could say I have connections that got me a position in the constabulary, even though my training is primarily in criminal prosecution.”

“You don’t say! My mother is the Assistant Chief Prosecutor. You might have run into her once or twice.”

“Oh, you must be joking!” Marasi exclaimed, her excitement betraying her. “Your _mother_ is Valera Colt? She came in for a few guest lectures while I was still at the University.”

“The very same! I used to run into Justice students while I attended the University, too. They’ve informed me that she was an absolute nightmare. Is that true?”

Marasi laughed. “She wasn’t so bad. I had one professor who was terrifying during lectures. He would call on you and make you feel like such a fool if you didn’t have the right answer prepared for him. Your mother wasn’t so bad as all that.”

“Try living with her methods for most of your life,” Kelrose joked. “Between a prosecutor for a mother and a priest for a father, I couldn’t get away with anything as a child.” Despite herself, Marasi agreed with a smile.

“Believe me, I know the feeling well,” she replied, grinning. “Whoever thinks bastard children get to have all the fun are very mistaken.”

The expression of surprise that clapped across his features was extremely satisfying. She was beginning to enjoy poking fun of the circumstances surrounding her birth before other people could learn and get the chance. It was one thing to accept who she was—it was another to laugh at what others scorned her for. There was a sort of invincibility in it. Was this how Wayne felt?

She turned her attention back to her task while Kelrose floundered, and the next few hours passed with little incident, though Marasi kept an eye on Wayne to make certain he didn’t try to pocket anything. After forcing him to return five dinner rolls, they departed with a few warm goodbyes to Kelrose, the other volunteers, and those they had met at the soup kitchen.

“That Kelrose fellow really liked you, huh?” Wayne asked, polishing off one of the dinner rolls he’d been allowed to keep. Reluctantly, he offered Marasi the other one, which she declined if only because he looked like he _really_ wanted to keep it. “How’d your talk with him go?”

“All right, I suppose,” she replied, idly fiddling with the straps of her handbag.

“What d’you think about him?”

Marasi hesitated, frowning. “He was… nice. He didn’t say anything terribly suspicious. I would need actual evidence in order to warrant looking into him any further.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t ask what you gotta do. I asked what you _thought._ ”

“I…” Her frown deepened. “I’m not sure. He seems like a nice enough man. Friendly, inquisitive. I have no reason to distrust him, but somehow, his questions made me uneasy.” She shrugged it off. “I’m probably being silly, I know.”

“Now, see,” Wayne interrupted her before she could barely get the last word out. “That ain’t true. You lawyer-y types are always goin’ on about ‘evidence’ and ‘reasonable suspicion’ and stuff like that. I reckon you should trust your gut. Why’d he seem off to you?”

Marasi fell silent as she thought, peering in concentration at the cobblestones in front of her. “I don’t suppose you heard our conversations,” she said slowly. “He didn’t seem so much interested in _me_ as he was in my supposed lack of purpose. He was trying very hard to relate to me and make himself available should I need someone to talk to. He’s a person of authority working with young people who are vulnerable and impressionable. He’s in the perfect position to influence them.”

When she turned back to Wayne, he was watching her with interest. She blushed. “It’s not a lot to go on, just a hunch. For all I know, his intentions are perfectly honourable.”

Wayne grinned. “You’re not as bad at this as I reckoned you’d be.”

“Your ability to deliver compliments is astounding.”

“What’d you say to keepin’ this going a little longer? Just until we figure out if he’s got something goin’ on behind the scenes?”

“I don’t know, Wayne. If he really _is_ trying to help, I’d feel bad about deceiving him.”

“So what? Worst case, you step on some toes ’n move on.” He winced. “You’re already real good at steppin’ on toes.” Marasi smacked his arm lightly, scowling, though she did have to press her lips together to keep from smiling. “Best case? We catch a bloke what’s doin’ some really nasty stuff.”

“What if he _is_ dangerous?”

“You can take care of yourself, mate. Plus, I ain’t gonna let you take this guy on all by your lonesome and get all the glory. Now, I ain’t used to playin’ backup, but since I’m such a right respectable and generous—”

“—and humble—”

“—bloke, I’ll let you take the lead. How’s that sound?” He winked at her. Marasi stared at him for a long moment.

“…Fine. But if this goes to rust, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal.” Wayne spat on his hand and offered it to her. She made a face and reached for his hand, but he pulled his up short. “You gotta spit on it.”

“Please don’t make me do this.”

“I don’t make the rules, mate. That’s your job.”

It wasn’t, but with a grimace, she spat—very delicately—on her palm. They shook hands, and Marasi immediately procured a handkerchief from her handbag.

*** * ***

When Wayne walked through the door of Ladrian manor, he nearly bumped into Wax on his way out. “Look who’s finally risen from the dead!” Wayne said, grinning. Wax turned to him distractedly, the butler behind him, fussing with Wax’s coat. “Where you headed? Can I come?”

“I’m not sure how much you’d _want_ to, Wayne,” he said, straightening his sleeves out. “Steris has asked me to help her with some of the wedding preparations. She might not want you underfoot.”

Wayne’s smile faltered and he stepped away from the door. Wax, on the other hand, clapped him on the shoulder as he squeezed through the door, calling back to Wayne. “Don’t get into too much trouble without me!”

“You’re the one getting _married_!” Wayne shot back, then shut the door before the butler had a chance. Wayne retrieved a pocket watch from his pocket—broken. Rustin’ predictable. “What time you got?” He asked the butler, who was turning away, probably to go back to doing whatever butlers did. Poison tea, probably, and blow up undeserving chaps.

“Six-fifteen,” he replied cursorily.

A little early, but time wasn’t real to a Slider, anyway. Wayne shrugged the door back open and shoved his hands in his pockets, heading in the direction of his favourite pub.

*** * ***

Marasi didn’t have a lot of time for leisure reading these days, as much as she regretted it. After the day’s events, she was looking forward to a relaxing evening. She had the weekend off, and after a long week, relaxation was much deserved. Perhaps she would even draw a hot bath at some point in an effort to soak the tension away. Analysis was easily as mentally taxing as prosecution, and she had a court date to prepare for next month, and—

She sucked in a deep breath and released it. Right. Relaxation.

Marasi’s idea of relaxation for the night was a novel and a cup of tea. It was, of course, a detective novel, but she had been assured by some of her friends that there was a good romance in it. It was a little trashy for Marasi’s tastes, but it didn’t require much thought to read, and that was the sort of thing she was in the mood for after long hours wracking her brain on the Hastings case. Some of her friends had invited her out to dinner, but she simply hadn’t possessed the energy.

She was just getting invested in Detective Tommins’ agonised confession of adoration for the brilliant Lady Relan when there was a loud knock at the door.

Startled, Marasi blurted a curse and nearly knocked her tea from the table in front of her. She quickly set the book down and grabbed her revolver from the mantle. “Who is it?” She called as she approached the door.

“’S me,” said a familiar voice from the other side. Marasi fumbled with the locks and the door finally swung open, revealing Wayne in rumpled clothing, which was not unusual. He swayed slightly and almost stumbled as he stepped over the threshold and into her flat. That was considerably more unusual.

“Wayne, are you… are you drunk?”

“’S like you don’t even know me, mate,” he said, with a faint slur. “There’s nothin’ wrong wif havin’ a couple’a—” He swayed again as Marasi closed the door behind him.

“Preservation’s wings. Here, let me help you before you plant face-first into the floor.” Marasi lifted his arm and draped it around her shoulders. She wrinkled her nose; he smelled strongly of whiskey. He sagged against her and she grunted in a very unladylike fashion as she struggled to remain upright. “I can’t _carry_ you, you’re too heavy. Move your feet. You were good at that earlier today.”

Wayne chuckled, and some of the weight eased from her shoulders. She helped him to the couch, and he splayed across it like a mistwraith with too few bones. “I’ll get you some tea. Don’t move.”

Marasi retreated to the kitchen and immediately put the kettle on. While she waited, she found a few cakes in her pantry for him to nibble on, and brought him a glass of water. “Drink this.” She commanded as she strode back into the sitting room, only to find him gulping down her cup of tea. “…That works, too, I suppose.” She set the water down near him. He had, evidently, been browsing through her book, because he held it up.

“You actually read this stuff?” He asked, more curious than scathing.

“Not routinely, but yes.” Marasi pointed at the glass of water. “Drink.”

“Ain’t that what got me into this mess in the first place?”

She fixed him with a flat look. He picked up the water and took a big gulp. While he finished with the water, she fixed them some tea and brought it out. She found him stretched across the couch with his hat tilted down over his eyes. Marasi poured the tea in silence. Finally, she settled into her chair, armed with her teacup in one hand and the saucer in the other. “All right, Wayne,” she said. “Why are you here?”

“I’ll leave in a tick,” he replied. “Some blokes were followin’ me, prob’ly for some money, and I hadda shake ‘em.” His voice came out muffled and a little slower than usual.

“I’m not letting you go out in your current state. If I have to, I’ll get you a carriage.”

“Aw, you don’t gotta do that. I didn’t think Wax’d want me around right now, anyhow.”

This made Marasi frown, lowering her saucer. “What gives you that idea?”

Wayne just shrugged. “Didn’t wanna be underfoot.”

At this, the frown deepened. Wayne looked perfectly at ease, his hat covering his face, arms and legs crossed, stretched comfortably across the length of her couch. It was odd that he’d come to her place, however, instead of heading back to Ladrian manor. Granted, they’d been spending more time together, but she wasn’t so presumptuous to think that he’d prioritise his friendship with her over Wax, for any reason. She set her teacup and saucer aside.

“Did something happen?”

“Yeah, what I just told you.”

“You know what I meant.”

Wayne was quiet for a moment. “He’s busy with weddin’ stuff, ’s all. Said I’d be in the way.”

Marasi’s lips parted. “Oh. I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know. Still.”

He meant it as a ‘still, I decided to give him some space,’ but to Marasi, it felt a lot like a ‘still, he said it, and the damage was done.’ She knew how that felt. Wayne had Wax around for the better part of his adult life, and now, someone was getting between them. Lessie, for whatever reasons, hadn’t been detrimental to their friendship, but that was likely because she was a lawkeeper, too. Between Wax’s depression and his preparation for the coming wedding, he didn’t seem to have as much time—or energy—for Wayne anymore. Marasi, who was accustomed to looking at the bigger picture, knew that it was likely to change as time progressed and Wax was allowed to heal. But, she also understood how awful it was to feel unwanted by the people who, by all rights, should have cared for her the most.

Her gaze fell to her lap. Not even Wayne was impervious to those hurts. “Stay here,” she said, and got up to rustle around in her linen closet for a minute. When she returned, she dropped a folded blanket on Wayne’s stomach. Surprised, he peeled his hat back from his face and glanced down.

“What’s—”

“You can sleep on my couch tonight.” She paused. “Make sure to sleep on your side, not your back. And please don’t be sick on my carpet.”

“You sure?”

“Of course.” Marasi picked up her teacup and her book. “You’re never in the way here, I promise. Good night, Wayne.”

“Night, Marasi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favourite thing about this was the handshake. Their hands have touched like 5+ times by now, doesn't that mean that by Old Timey standards, they're married?


	7. Dust Hymn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wayne has an encounter with the stampeding herd of koloss known as "Marasi making breakfast while A Certain Someone has a raging hangover." Marasi, Steris, and a friend somehow fail the Bechdel test. Someone returns to the constabulary, and Marasi gets a Hot Date (not what you think).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me forever to write, and it's still pretty weak. Hopefully things will speed up next chapter, sorry guys!
> 
> Also, I HAVE read BoM. There won't be any spoilers here since this is all between SoS and BoM (but keep an eye out for a part 2 later on that WILL take place after BoM.) More notes at the end!

Wayne was rudely awakened in the morning by a herd of koloss stampeding through the kitchen with pots on their heads.

No, hold on a tick.

It was Marasi. And she seemed to be making breakfast.

Wayne’s cloudy vision was assaulted by light the moment he opened his eyes. He winced. Why’d her flat have to be so bright? ’S not like she needed to drag the entire _sun_ down into her sitting room. He tried closing his eyes again, but the sunlight pried its way past his eyelids. There was an earth-shattering clamour that vibrated against his skull.

“You gotta stomp around like that?” He grumbled into the couch cushion as quietly as he could.

It was a real surprise Marasi wasn’t a Tineye, because no normal ears should’ve been able to hear it. “Oh, good morning!” She chirped, following it with another resounding crash. She sounded really bloody cheerful when she responded, considering she was making enough noise to wake the dead and send ‘em on a revenge mission for their throbbing heads. How could such a small woman make such a huge ruckus? Wayne made a sound that should’ve translated to “please, for the love of Preservation, stop trying to imitate a trainwreck in a thunderstorm.”

She didn’t interpret right, or maybe she didn’t care, because she slammed another glass of water down, either on or beside his head. “I wasn’t sure what time you would get up, so I took it upon myself to make breakfast early.”

A proper saint, she was. His stomach turned uneasily at the prospect of breakfast. Even sound and the light were enough to make his stomach wobble.

“Ain’t you s’posed to have the day off?”

“Aren’t _you_ supposed to be a bloodmaker? I wouldn’t think a hangover could incapacitate you so thoroughly.”

Now, that was downright uncalled for. He sniffled as he cracked his eyes open. Daylight assaulted him immediately, so overpowering that not even his goldminds could save him. He groaned and draped his arm over his face. His other hand closed around something cold and cylindrical—Marasi had placed the glass of water in his hand, but his muddled brain was having trouble connecting the points between glass, gravity, and hand. Fortunately, Marasi seemed to notice this before he could upend the glass all over himself and her couch, and held his hand steady until he shuffled into a seated position and forced himself to drink the water.

“Mostly I store health when ‘m hungover,” he mumbled. It sounded fuzzy and tinny all at the same time, like a phonograph smothered with pillows. “Figure ‘m already miserable ’n I did it to myself, so might as well.”

“That doesn’t make any sense whatsoever,” Marasi said. He glanced at her furtively out of one eye, resulting in a stabbing pain to his his temples. She looked nice, despite the fact that she was in a casual skirt and blouse, and her hair was loose. “Drink your water. I’m going to finish making breakfast.”

Wayne closed his eyes and sipped idly at his water. Once or twice, he missed his mouth and dribbled a bit down his shirt. He was pretty sure that only twenty seconds passed between Marasi leaving and her cheerful “Breakfast is ready!”

Everything tasted like ash.

“How is it?” Marasi asked while Wayne chewed around a mouthful of eggs and bread and washed it down with what tasted like used bathwater.

“’S real good,” he replied, a bit of egg tumbling from his lips. She quirked an eyebrow. “…Tastes like cigars,” he admitted. “But that’s prob’ly not your fault.”

“I’m not so sure about that. When I said I can’t cook much, I wasn’t joking.”

Wayne looked skeptical. “How d’you ruin eggs?” After a moment’s pause, he shook his head. He could practically feel his brain rattling around in his skull. “Nah, never mind. Wax’s blown up a can of beans before. He ’n Lessie were both pretty bad at the whole cooking thing.”

Marasi paused at that, but Wayne’s head hurt too much to think about it. “Anyway,” Wayne continued. “You got a few days off? Why’re you getting up so early?”

“It’s ten in the morning, Wayne,” Marasi said with some amusement. “But yes, I have today and tomorrow off.” She stopped, a flat look sinking over her pretty features. “Unless there’s another murder.”

“Damn. Savin’ the world ain’t all sunshine ’n bunnies, huh?” That made her smile. “Got any plans?”

“Today I need to help my sister with some wedding preparations. She has a dress fitting in two hours, and I agreed to meet her since Elanor is her tailor for this particular dress.”

“ _This_ dress?” Wayne repeated, frowning.

“She has a backup dress and a backup tailor.”

“Figures.”

“Anyway, once I’m done with that, I’m helping with seating arrangements and choosing a typeface for the placards.”

Wayne nodded along blithely, swallowing his breakfast. It just wasn’t right. Marasi was smiling, but she shouldn’t’ve had to help marry the bloke what she fancied to someone else. Her sister, no less! Wax could be a bloody idiot, sometimes. Here was Marasi, smart and pretty and independent, and Wax was still going through with his plan to marry the one that thought “fun” was something you could schedule. Wax was making a huge mistake, and he probably knew it but was too damn stubborn and proud to do anything about it. And Marasi? Well, she probably had a reason for not kissin’ Wax right on the mouth and showing him what was what, but Wayne was too hungover to figure out what that reason was, exactly.

She noticed his silence, but must have misunderstood what it meant, because she started babbling. “You’re free to stay here or come with me, of course. It’s just going to be very dull, so I’m not sure how interested you’ll be. Unless you’d like to see Elanor, though I’m not sure Steris will let you into the back where she’s changing. That said, I’m sure we would be able to scrounge up some sweets at Lord Harms’ place. The cook is very—”

“Nah, I’m headed out. You’re gonna go see your tailor friend?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Tell her thanks for the coat.” Wayne downed the rest of his water and took his dishes to the kitchen, though he wasn’t really sure where to put them. Then, he headed straight for the door, grabbing his hat and coat on the way.

“You’re leaving already?” Marasi asked as he gingerly placed the hat on his head. For some reason, whenever he moved it felt like his brain was too heavy, like it wanted to stay where it was and he was trying to drag the rest of his body away from it.

“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks for breakfast, though. You ain’t as bad at cookin’ as you think.” He tipped his hat to her, winced, and slipped out from her flat as subtly as he could. It was rubbish that a chap couldn’t be mates with a lady without someone assumin’ right away that they was doing the horizontal foxtrot.

He _was_ learnin’ how to do the waltz with Marasi, but that was different. A taken woman, she was, ‘least in a manner of speaking. There was nothin’ inappropriate about that.

He shuffled along the sidewalk, pulling the brim of his hat down over his eyes to lessen the effects of the sun on his aching head.

It took him almost an hour to get from Marasi’s place to Wax’s on foot, but he didn’t mind the fresh air even though the morning sun was murder on his eyes. He got a few looks as he strolled through Fourth Octant, looking a bit of a sore sight in his rumpled Roughs clothing.

Wax wasn’t in, according to a quick search of Ladrian Manor. Wayne bumped into the butler on his way out, and the man reluctantly admitted that Wax had headed over to the precinct.

Wayne’s eyes bulged at that and he flew out the door as he burned away the hangover.

In the precinct offices, Wayne found Wax bickering with Constable General Reddi. While he waited for it to end, he snatched a muffin from a conner’s desk and stretched out where Marasi usually sat. He snatched a cup of tea from a harried-looking constable and downed it, healing his burned mouth and throat in the process. The muffins and tea were a sight better than Marasi’s cooking, but he was willing to say it was on account of the rusting hangover.

He beckoned the constable over. “Hey, ain’t you that bloke what got me ’n Marasi for the Cett murder?”

The young man turned a little pink, but he nodded deeply. “Mica, sir. Er, Constable Towery.”

“You done runnin’ tea? I reckon I got an errand for you.”

Wayne relayed his message to Mica, who scampered off just before Wax left Reddi’s office. He glanced down at the desk. Wayne grinned. “Didn’t think you’d be here for a while. Tryin’ to find a new best man?”

“At least if I ask someone here, I’ll know where to find him.” Wax said with a dose of his regular humour, his eyes following a struggling man who was being pulled toward the holding cells. “Where were you this morning? I was surprised to hear you were out so early.”

“Just doin’ the usual, mate,” said Wayne, leaning back in Marasi’s chair. It wobbled a bit. That wasn’t no good. He’d have to see if he could fix it with some glue or something. “Savin’ donuts, eating babies. Anythin’ to be a service in this here fine city.” Wax only spared him the faintest of skeptical looks. “What’s goin’ on? There a murder I don’t know about?” Probably not. Wayne was keeping up real close with the homicides, at least in Fourth. Most of it was all the basic stuff you’d see in the Roughs—bar fights gone to rust, domestic disputes resolved with a gun, gang kids that got too aggressive and made a mistake that’d cost them a life behind bars… or worse.

“I wanted to inquire into that case you were talking about.” Wax was still real tired around the eyes, and his face looked sunken, but if he was forcing himself to get out and do what he was meant to do, that was a good thing, right? ‘Sides, Wayne wasn’t in the right position to say what a bloke had to do when he killed his wife _again._ “You and Marasi are working on it, correct? You mentioned it was locked-room.”

“Sure,” Wayne said. “We ain’t the _proper_ investigators or nuffin, but we got a lead we’re following.”

“All right. What have we got?”

Wayne frowned a moment, but he got up and led Wax to the meeting room where the facts of the case were lined up.

*** * ***

One of these days, Marasi _really_ wanted to arrive to a function earlier than Steris. It wasn’t that she made a habit of being tardy—Steris was simply always earlier than her. It felt uncomfortable on both ends for Marasi to be involved in the wedding preparations for a variety of reasons, but Marasi made herself available, and Steris called on her occasionally. Admittedly, it was nice to be useful, even though things were often a little awkward between the sisters.

Elanor was chattering away in her usual manner when Marasi finally arrived at the fitting, barely letting Steris get a word in edgewise. Elanor, of course, loved weddings: one part because she was deeply a romantic at heart (who occupied her time concerned with _other_ people’s love lives rather than her own), but the larger contributing factor was that weddings were expensive.

The wedding dress had finally reached completion, and it was a marvellous sight to behold: tasteful white lace, a modest, yet flattering cut for the bodice and skirt. Memorable, but not too memorable, and elegant without being too daring. Elanor had an eye for these things, and she had not failed in following Steris’ instructions to the letter.

“Marasi!” She grinned as Marasi entered the room. Steris glanced over and gave a terse nod; it twisted faintly in Marasi’s stomach. “Glad you could make it. What do you think?”

“I think you’ve outdone yourself again, Elanor.” Marasi put on a warm smile and went to sit down at the settee where a few samples for the table setting cards sat in a carefully-organised binder. She began to flip through them, trying very hard to differentiate between the cards. They’d had a similar problem when Steris was getting the wedding invitations together—they wouldn’t go out for another few months, but Steris insisted on being prepared early.

All of the scripts looked identical to Marasi. They were _different_ , sure, but they weren’t different enough for it to be significant or matter to the person who would take one look at the name, sit down, and disregard the cardstock for the rest of the reception. She tried not to sigh. This meant something to Steris, so she should be trying harder.

“When I’m done, people will be talking for months about how radiant you looked on your wedding day, Lady Harms,” Elanor prattled dreamily. “Lord Ladrian is a very lucky man.”

Steris turned a little pink, and mumbled a “Thank you” to Elanor.

“Not that it’s my tailoring that will make him realise that, specifically,” Elanor added. She ventured a quick glance over in Marasi’s direction; Marasi shrugged. Elanor was no stranger to the stories of Waxillium Ladrian, though in private with close friends, Marasi’s retellings could be a little less than flattering. As much as she respected Wax, he could be so _rusting_ infuriating. “How are your other preparations going, Lady Harms?”

“As well as can be expected,” she replied. “We are quite ahead of schedule, at the very least, which is… unexpected.”

Elanor nodded cheerfully, but Marasi could see her pressing her lips together ever so slightly—Marasi tried very hard not to make a face. Perhaps her retellings of some of the more unsavoury things Wax had done were colouring her friend’s perceptions. “It always comes down to us ladies to be in charge of the important things,” she said with an ounce of her usual cheek. “It’s a wonder men get anything done without us.”

“Lord Waxillium is… effective,” Steris said carefully. Marasi curbed a smile. “He is trying, at the very least. In any case, we have the venue picked out, and we have the printers working on the wedding invitations. Things are going quite well, so far.”

“Steris has planned for every way it could go wrong,” said Marasi, shuffling back on the settee and pausing on a nice handwritten script. A little too flamboyant for Steris’ tastes, maybe. “I doubt even a herd of koloss charging through the church could be a setback.”

A look of alarm crossed Steris’ face. It would seem that charging koloss had not been on the list of possibilities until now. Drat. Now Steris would doubtless be fretting about it for the next few days until she came up with a solution. _Great work, Marasi._

“That would be romantic, though, you have to admit,” Elanor said. Marasi frowned.

“What’s so romantic about a herd of enraged koloss in a church?”

“Well, obviously, Lord Ladrian would have to step in and save the day.”

“He’s very fond of that, incidentally,” Marasi admitted. “It’d be nice for _him_ to be the damsel in distress for once.”

“Marasi,” Steris chided, her expression stern.

“Sorry. I’m rather tired of being held at gunpoint.”

Elanor glanced between the two sisters and smiled, transitioning seamlessly. “How did your gala go, by the way? You never told me. I expect you got numerous comments on your dress?”

“I did, in fact,” Marasi replied, thankful for the distraction. Even though she was far from interested in marrying Wax now, it was still a slightly sore subject. A side effect, she supposed, of her inferior breeding and her father’s fear that Marasi might be seen as more desirable than Steris. That was hardly the case. Marasi shoved that line of thought away. It was too easy to feel a remnant of bitterness—things like that could linger, even if you had long since accepted the truth. “Lillen was there, and I exchanged a few words with Lady Marewill Ryden. They both asked me to give you my regards and mention that you should come to Mare’s salon next week.”

“Oh, good. She always has the most delightful little sandwiches at her salons.”

Marasi shook her head, a little smile on her face. “Did you see anyone else there?” Elanor continued, turning back to fuss with the skirt of Steris’ dress. She pinned a swatch of lace just below the bodice, concentrating very hard on her task.

“Are you thinking of anyone in particular?”

“Not really. How did your friend like his coat?”

“My… oh.” Of _course_. Steris turned to Marasi at that, perplexed at the mention of the word ‘his.’ Suddenly, Elanor’s intervention was less of a boon. “He also asked me to send his regards along.”

“He didn’t say anything else?”

“None that I can recall. He said to thank you for the coat, and that was it.”

“That was _it?_ ”

Marasi coloured. “I… believe so.”

Steris’ face was meticulously blank. It was impolite to butt into the conversation to ask questions, of course, and Marasi was relying on Steris’ perfect decorum.

“I don’t suppose there was any dancing,” Elanor said finally, screwing her face into something that was vaguely sulky and largely disappointed.

“I’m afraid it wouldn’t do much good if there had been,” Steris said suddenly, startling Marasi. Elanor’s gaze swiveled from Steris back to Marasi, her eyes glittering with intent. It was unnerving; the woman was like a hawk. Once she had her hooks into something, it could never be pried loose.

“Do you not know how to dance?”

“I thought you were supposed to be my friend,” Marasi complained. “I’m working on it.”

“With whom?” Steris asked. “If I recall, you were most recalcitrant to my early efforts in teaching you how to do a waltz.”

“I’m working on it,” Marasi repeated, her face flushing darker. “I’m taking lessons.”

“Lessons? Marasi, you do not need to waste money on lessons. I do not mean to sound arrogant, but I am far more than simply adequate as a teacher, and—”

“Oh,” Elanor gasped. “You _didn’t._ ”

This was _bad._

“She didn’t what?”

“You didn’t! With _Wayne?_ ”

“Wayne? What about Wayne? Are we discussing the same person?”

“Dancing lessons! With him!”

“Marasi?”

Marasi sighed, rubbing her temples. “I’m taking dancing lessons with Wayne, yes. He didn’t give me much choice. He was almost as horrified at finding out I don’t know how to dance as you were, Steris.” She pointed a finger at Elanor before she could interrupt. “And before you get excited, it’s not like that. I’d rather be courted by Ironeyes himself.” Maybe not a wise thing to say, considering she had met Ironeyes.

“Survivor. Could you imagine being courted by that scoundrel?” Steris made a face.

Marasi fell silent, suddenly feeling more than a little uncomfortable.

*** * ***

The rest of her time off was spent in relative idyll. Marasi managed to finish the book—the ending was unmemorable, but satisfactory—and there were no crises at the precinct that claimed her attention. On her last free day, she decided to go to Kelrose Colt’s church on a whim.

She wasn’t entirely certain what she was looking for. A hint that the tiny little church down in the Inner Fourth did not belong to the puzzle piece of the recent murders, perhaps, or maybe that it _did_. Either way, she found herself sitting in the pews listening as he gave a sermon.

He spoke with passion she had never seen before. The way the formed words into sentences crept into her bloodstream and played her heartstrings like she was a violin. He spoke of equality, of justice, of hope and hopelessness. His voice shook as he spoke of the injustices that he witnessed on their very streets, and how, no matter their best efforts, it never seemed to improve everything.

“But,” he said, his voice going quiet. The rest of the congregation leaned into the hush, hanging onto his every word. “The Survivor taught us one thing in particular, and that is hope. We survive the trials and the tragedies that are enforced upon us, but there is always something greater to reach toward: the brightness of a future without inequality and strife, where all people are free to make their own path. This is the message that we must cling to, no matter what we are told of the Survivor and his teachings, no matter what stands in our way. We face our own Lord Ruler every day, but we don’t need to succumb—not as long as there is hope.”

It was a message Marasi had heard many times before, but she watched the people filter out of the sanctuary, chatting with each other after the service. They seemed… lighter. Less burdened. No matter how trite that sort of message was, it had been what they needed to hear.

“Marasi?” A familiar voice tugged at her ears, and she turned to see Kelrose approaching her, beaming. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon. What brings you here? Not business, I hope.”

“Not at all,” she said. His smile was disarming, bringing one to her own face before she had even realised it. That didn’t settle right with her for some reason. “I wanted to hear you speak.”

“I hope I didn’t disappoint,” he laughed.

“Oh, not in the least. I wish I could have had that confidence back when I was studying law. Mock trials used to be a nightmare.”

“You, too? I used to _hate_ public speaking. I’ve grown to love it, though.” He paused briefly, that relaxed smile still on his face. It threatened to put Marasi at ease. “I have a question for you. And, I know it’s rather unconventional, so please don’t feel obligated to accept.” Marasi’s eyebrows rose expectantly. “Would you like to go for tea next week?”

“I—” She hesitated. It just didn’t _feel_ right. _This is good, Marasi,_ she told herself. _If he knows something about the murders, you might be able to pull it out of him. Besides, he_ is _very attractive._ “I would love to.”

*** * ***

Returning back to the constabulary was nice, but when she walked through the doors, she realised she could have used a few more days of vacation.

It was _busy_ , yes, but even more notably, Wax was there, frowning over a board with maps and pictures stuck to it. She approached gingerly, nodding to a few of the other constables along the way—most of them seemed to be giving Wax a wide berth.

Marasi tripped over something.

“Ow! Watch where you’re going!”

Correction. Some _one_. Wayne was on the floor, looking at— she wasn’t entirely sure _what_ he was looking at. He was lying on his back, fussing with a chair.

Wait.

“Wayne.”

“Oh. Hey, Marasi.”

“What are you doing with my chair.”

He grinned at her, sitting up. Wayne was chewing furiously on what appeared to be a huge wad of gum.

“I was just”—he stopped, spat the wad of gum into his palm, and slapped it somewhere on the bottom of her chair—“fixin’ your chair. It almost dumped me on the floor the other day, ’n I figured that wasn’t no way for a mate of mine to live.”

Marasi felt a little sick staring down at her chair. “You just didn’t want end up on the floor when you steal my chair.”

The grin did not falter. If anything, it widened. Marasi sighed, scrubbing a hand over her face. “Thanks. I think.” He saluted.

Before Marasi could turn her attention to Wax, she was interrupted by Constable-General Reddi, who poked his head out of his office. “Lieutenant Colms?” He called. He beckoned her toward the office. With a sinking feeling, she squared her shoulders and headed toward him. He closed the door behind her and returned to his desk, though he just hovered awkwardly behind it rather than sitting down. “I just— wanted to let you know that we followed up on the robberies in Dorest neighbourhood. We caught them all, thanks to your predictions.” Reddi cleared his throat. He was frowning like it was physically paining him to speak. “Keep— Keep up the good work, Colms. You’re dismissed.”

Reeling, Marasi left the office, feeling a little like her soul had left her body and she was floating a few feet above the ground. Her information for the robberies had been right? And, what’s more, it had been useful?

“What was that all about?” Wayne asked once she returned and sat mutely in her chair, which, she noted, _did_ seem a lot more stable than before.

“Nothing,” she said, still floating. Reddi? _Thanking_ her? She cleared the daze away with a shake of her head. “I wasn’t expecting to see you back so soon, Wax. Is everything alright?”

“I’ve been taking a look at the Hastings case,” he said absently, still frowning at the board. “I just got clearance to investigate some of these Sliverists and look into Hastings’ factories. We’re just heading out. Wayne?”

Wayne nodded, straightening his hat on his head. Oddly, he paused to glance over at Marasi. “Wanna drive us? Might help your victim profile thing.”

The baffled excitement of Reddi’s recognition faded. “No, thank you. I should stay and get some work done here.” If her predictions had done some good, then perhaps she would be of more use in the precinct than acting chauffeur to Wax and Wayne, anyway. Wax spared her a nod and a tight-lipped expression that might have been a vague smile under normal circumstances before he headed out in his usual smooth, loping flurry of motion. Wayne took his time getting up from the floor and gathering the motley collection of tools he had been using to fix the chair—by the looks of it, a piece of string, his tin of gum, a rusty screwdriver, and… a candle snuffer? That was definitely one of the snuffers from Kelrose’s church.

“You had a nice break?”

“Nice enough, I suppose. I went to the Survivorist church yesterday. The one in inner Fourth.”

Wayne perked up. “You find anythin’?”

“You could say that. I’m going out with Kelrose later on this week. He invited me out.”

Wayne frowned. “Why?”

“I figure he fancies me,” Marasi said dryly. “You know, when a man likes a woman and thinks she’s pretty, and—” Wayne rolled his eyes, but he grinned anyway. “I don’t know if there’s anything more to it, but he still doesn’t seem right to me.”

“You need someone to give him a good thumping?”

“A— no! Not… yet, at least.” From the way he was smirking, he had been joking. Rusts. She thought she’d been getting good at telling when he was being serious and when he wasn’t. “I intend to use the opportunity to see if he knows anything about the murderer.”

Wayne nodded in approval. “But really,” he said. “Don’t let him try nothin’ funny. You think you might need backup?”

Despite herself, Marasi smiled. “It’s just tea, Wayne.”

“Sure, that’s what they all say.” He tipped his hat. “See you, Marasi. We’ll let you know if we find somethin’.”

When Wayne left, she returned her chair to her desk and sat down, pulling out a few old files she had been working on. She sighed heavily, a strange, hollow ache returning to her chest. It was nice to see Wax back at work, of course; there was no denying that. But at the same time, it suddenly felt, once again, like nothing had changed. He was off saving the world, and she was stuck behind the desk—that, or she was merely in the way when she tried to help with his investigations. It was a wonder the constabulary was still running, with the way Wax got credit for all of their cases.

*** * ***

She didn’t see either Wax or Wayne for the rest of the day, but when she returned home for the night, she was perplexed to find a large vase filled with a bouquet of more-than slightly wilted flowers on her doorstep. They would have been quite lovely earlier on in the day—delicate heart-shaped pink petals, or dusty coloured flowers with bright, big yellow centers. There was a small card hidden amidst the flowers. All it said was: “ _Thanks. -W.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, I'm sorry about this chapter! I needed to get it out of the way, and I've tossed myself back into Novel Writing: The Revisioning, so I can't give you a good timeline on how this is going to progress. 
> 
> THAT SAID! This fic is definitely going to keep happening even after the events of BoM, and I am going to do my best to keep it in line with canon. Do I approve of some of the things that happened in BoM? YES. Do I disapprove of some of the things that happened? YES. Feel free to ask me about my approval/disapproval if you've read it (it's mostly character development stuff rather than actual plot related stuff).
> 
> So far, what I'm planning is to finish up this part of the fic to wrap up the murder mystery and fill in some of the holes that were left by BoM, and then there will probably be a second part to this fic that will happen post-BoM where I can ATTEMPT to make sense of some of the things that didn't make a lot of sense to me in BoM. If you guys want to talk to me about BoM (AND MISTBORN: SECRET HISTORY. ESPECIALLY THAT.) shoot me a message on Tumblr!


	8. From Between Cracked Cobblestones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Area Woman Goes on a Date and Joins a Cult; Area Man Blows His Cover, Makes Bad Puns, and Pretends to be an Idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 80 years later, I have returned. I still haven't given up on this fic, fyi, and I am ready to be BACK WITH A VENGEANCE now that novel revision is (mostly) done. Anyway, this chapter is basically All Murder Stuff to make up for the nonsense that was That One 10k Chapter In Which No Murder Happened, so if you're here for the murder, GREAT! If you're here for the Wayne/Marasi, I'm sorry, but murder is the one true love of my life. (I haven't edited this and I'm running on three hours of sleep. Posting this is a Mistake.)
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to Emily's sister, at least 47 months after her birthday. Happy birthday, Emily's sister!

Jaken Beldar was a busybody if one ever existed. He peered over his menu, squinting in annoyance at the two lovebirds making eyes at each other a few tables away. They were a handsome pair, to be sure, but young people these days needed to learn some boundaries.

“As I’ve said, I was raised with Survivorism,” the young woman was saying, “but I suppose there is something about the Survivor’s teachings that appeals to me.”

“You mentioned,” the young man said. “May I ask how so?”

A smile that looked like a secret settled on her lips. She spouted some religious babble about rising up beyond one’s circumstances and changing the way things were done; he responded excitedly about feeling the same. _Religion?_ If this Kelrose bloke thought he could sweep ladies off their feet by talking about the Survivor, it was no wonder he was single. What kinda seduction talk was that?

Someone cleared their throat. Wayne looked up to see a waitress standing near his elbow awkwardly, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. Right. He wasn’t Wayne, he was Jaken Beldar; one of the old guard, a former constable. A Survivorist, to be sure, because that was the only _real_ religion. Still, young folk needed to learn respect for their surroundings! All that wanton flirtation happening in the corner was unfit for public consumption.

Wayne-as-Jaken harrumphed at length and grouchily pointed to an item on the menu. The waitress tried to take his menu, but Wayne protested fiercely, claiming he wasn’t sure that was all he wanted. A few people glanced his way. Didn’t anybody know how to mind their own business these days? Ruination, what was society coming to?

Wayne raised his menu and glanced over it, focusing back on the conversation taking place a few tables away. This time he listened to body language more than what they were saying. At first blush, Kelrose was eating up every word Marasi said; he leaned forward in interest, following her words with encouraging nods or the occasional hum of agreement. His posture was open and receptive, and he smiled or frowned in concern at all the right intervals. It was textbook, or at least would’ve been if Wayne ever read textbooks. Awful boring drivel, that. You’d learn a lot more just staring at people from a park bench for an afternoon.

Marasi was clad in her work uniform, having squeezed her meeting with Kelrose in before her shift at the precinct. After the incident with the robberies in the inner Fourth, Reddi had dumped a number of ongoing cases on her desk and asked her to make sense of them. It seemed to be keeping her on her feet, at least, which Wayne supposed was a good thing.

Now, she seemed relaxed. She kept her posture open, too, though her spine was stiff and her legs were crossed—her foot bobbed anxiously, and hidden in her lap, she toyed with her fingers. Kelrose wouldn’t have been able to see any of it from where he was sitting, but Wayne had a good view of both of them—he could see evidence of her discomfort, but otherwise, she played it by the book, too. She leaned forward, tilted her head in concentration as he talked, mirrored his posture when it changed.

It was good acting, better than he expected. To anyone else, she might seem a little anxious or unsettled, but nothing out of the ordinary considering how dates could go. Wayne, however, knew that the little hand thing she was doing meant she’d be fiddling with her handbag if it’d been in her lap, and that meant she was real nervous.

They were playing each other like fiddles; Marasi suspected something wasn’t right with him, and she likely knew he was playing her for a fool. Kelrose was a lot harder to read, but his reactions were just a little too scripted for Wayne’s peace of mind. He subtly nudged the conversation in certain directions and then gauged her answers. Like it was a test of some sort.

The conversation jumped from religion to childhood to work to hobbies, but he didn’t say anything _dramatically_ offensive, much to Jaken’s displeasure. After about an hour, Marasi asked for the time and apologised, saying she had to head to work. They parted ways after agreeing to take tea again in the future; Kelrose paid the bill, bowed over Marasi’s hand, and she left.

Huffing, Wayne-as-Jaken paid for his meal—leaving a generous tip because Jaken was a busybody, not an _animal_ —and shuffled out of the teahouse. He shucked his disguise in a nearby alley, donned his duster, and booked it for the Fourth Octant Precinct. By some miracle, Marasi wasn’t there by the time he got there, so he threw himself into her chair, tossed his feet up on the desk, and tilted his hat over his face to make it look like he’d been napping.

Twenty seconds later, he heard Marasi come in and exchange a few words with constables on the way to her desk. She stopped to deposit some files on her desk and nudged Wayne’s boot to indicate he should move his feet. Wayne reckoned it was in his best interest to comply, so he pulled his feet off the desk and pulled his hat back up to grin at Marasi. “So, how was the date? You figure anythin’ out?”

Marasi stared down at him, brows raising in amusement.

“You tell me, detective.”

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, mate.”

“I know you were there.”

“Not ringin’ any bells. You sure it wasn’t some other handsome chap?”

The look she gave him told him that the gig was up and he’d best come clean before she made a mop of him, herself. He grinned. “You two were playin’ a pretty duet, huh? I think he’s got a good career in politics.”

“How much did you hear?” Marasi asked. Wayne just shrugged; she shook her head, a small smile on her face. Wayne was surprised she was taking it so well. “I don’t think he outright lied to my face, but I could tell he was trying to direct the flow of conversation. There’s this… technique they teach to new investigators, using empathy and kindness to pull the answer you want out of a suspect. It was almost like that.”

“Like he was testin’ you.”

“Exactly. I tried to give the answers he wanted, but I’m not sure I succeeded. He’s very disarming. I noticed it at his church, too, with the way he spoke to the congregation. Do you think he’s an emotional Allomancer?”

Wayne shook his head slowly. “Nah, I don’t think so, just a real crafty bugger.”

“So have you and Wax found anything?”

Again, Wayne shook his head. “Sliverists was a dead end. They ain’t seen anyone odd ‘round, and ain’t nobody could tell us ‘bout anyone what didn’t like Miss Cett.” He paused. “Nobody what didn’t like her more than usual, that is. She wasn’t real popular, either, but I reckon that’s just a Sliverist thing.”

Marasi leaned against her desk, fingers drumming rhythmically on the wood surface. “I suppose we could ask the Survivorist churches in Fourth for a list of congregation members.”

“Bad idea.” They hadn’t done it earlier in order to avoid potentially tipping the killer off before they were ready to make a move. “We might have a reason to ask for names, but we still ain’t got reasonable suspicion to go runnin’ after a Survivorist who up ’n decides to skip church.”

Marasi smiled. “‘Reasonable suspicion,’ hmm? You’re right, though.” She puffed her cheeks out in a heavy sigh. “Dead end after dead end.”

“ _Dead_ end. On account of them bein’ dead and all.”

She rolled her eyes, but her gaze snagged on something and she glanced toward the front of the precinct building. A woman was being escorted by a constable; she looked worried, glancing over her shoulder every few steps. Her face was familiar, though her hair was undone and she wore a clean-pressed dress instead of a uniform.

“Hey,” Wayne said, “ain’t that…?”

“The maid from the Cett place,” Marasi murmured.

The young woman was seated on a bench as the constable retreated to Staff Sergeant Morveau’s desk. They spoke in hushed tones for a few moments, and eventually the woman was moved in the direction of the interviewing rooms.

Sergeant Morveau approached Marasi’s desk, rubbing his bearded chin thoughtfully. “Colms. The maid who discovered Renna Cett’s body wants to make a statement, and I’d like you to take it.”

“Me, sir?” Marasi’s eyes widened, shoulders stiffening. “I’m not a lead investigator on the case. Surely someone else would be—”

“Lieutenant Caberal doesn’t have a shift for another two hours, and the other women are on the beat. The girl is this close to hysterics, and I think a… _feminine touch_ is in order.”

Wayne watched Marasi. Her lips flattened a little at the staff sergeant’s delivery, but she agreed with a curt nod of her head. “Wayne?” She turned very slightly in his direction and then stalked away toward the interviewing rooms, leaving Wayne to tail after her.

*** * ***

“Could I get your name for the records, please?”

The young woman took a sip from her glass of water. Her hands shook and she dabbed at the bit of water that dribbled down her chin; her eyes were red as if she had been crying, and the purple bags drooping beneath her eyes looked like bruises hanging beneath the cloudy grey stormclouds of her irises.

“Allri Taran,” she said shakily.

“Now, Allri,” Marasi continued, keeping her tone level, calm. “What can you tell me about the night Lady Renna Cett died?”

Allri glanced down at her lap. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and the deep breath she took shuddered within her chest.

“Lady Cett… she liked to keep her own hours, you know? Lord and Lady Cett—Lady Renna’s mother, begging your pardon—often turned a blind eye to it and paid all us staff well to do the same.

“I couldn’t sleep that night, ma’am. I was… I was supposed to be sleeping early that night, but I just couldn’t settle down proper. So, I went into the kitchen, I did, to get meself a cuppa. Wasn’t barely through the kitchen door when I heard the front door bang, and I says to meself, it’s likely just Lady Renna back at her usual odd hours.”

The woman stopped short, wringing her hands.

“What happened then?” Marasi prompted gently.

“I… I didn’t pay it no mind, ma’am. It weren’t nothing out of the ordinary, and the kitchen’s too far from the front door to hear any voices, just the door opening and closing. I was in the kitchen for about an hour. I like to read, see, when I’m having trouble sleeping, so it’s not unusual I was there for a while. Around the time I was ready to head back to bed, I heard something else from upstairs. A loud noise. This time, I went to check. I got to the foyer and I see him coming down the stairs.”

“Him?”

“He was…” The girl hesitated, exhaling shakily. “He was tall. Handsome. Dark hair, what I recall. I think his eyes were blue, but I can’t be too sure. Plain clothes, but nice. He had… there was blood. There was… there was a lot of blood.” Allri’s voice broke, and her face crumpled. A sob tore from her mouth and she pressed one hand over her lips, trembling. “I looked at him and it was like… like I’d known him my whole life. I don’t think— I never seen him in my life, ma’am, but I would’ve done anything he asked. Like a childhood friend or a lover, but even deeper than that. He smiled at me and told me not to tell anyone, that he’d be in trouble if I said something. And I believed him, I did. I still do. But I can’t— I can’t lie about what I saw. He killed her, didn’t he? He killed Lady Renna? Drove those spikes right through her eyes?”

Hiccuping sobs hitched every second word, and tears had begun to stream from the Allri’s eyes. Marasi reached into her uniform pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, handing it silently to Allri and taking the young woman’s other hand. The woman grasped her fingers like Marasi was a lifeline. “He said… said I couldn’t tell anyone, and I still don’t want to, ma’am, but he did it. I know he did. Please don’t hurt him. Please don’t hurt him; he’s a good man. He killed her, I know it. But please, please don’t hurt him.”

*** * ***

“Why is it,” Marasi sighed, slumping against the break room table, “that every time we seem to get a break in this case, we are left with more questions than answers?”

“It can’t be emotional Allomancy,” Wayne said. “I ain’t never heard of emotional Allomancy what can do that to a person.”

“And it doesn’t sound like Kelrose, so that’s out.” After Allri had calmed down enough to make sense again, Marasi pressed her for a better description and sat the young woman down with a sketch artist. They now had a composite sketch of the man: tall, about six feet by Allri's approximation, pale with dark brown hair and blue eyes. Although stressful situations often led a victim to misremember details, the sketch looked nothing like Kelrose, and Allri had been fairly confident in the likeness.

“Too bad the weird ones can't always be the answer,” Wayne said.

“If that were the case, we'd have to lock you and Wax up post-haste,” Marasi retorted, carding a hand through her hair. Wayne just grinned.

“We might be able to pull something out of our other witnesses now,” Wax said. He was scowling in a characteristically brooding manner at the written statement of Allri Taran. “Who did you say you questioned earlier?”

“The butler,” Marasi replied absently, shuffling through her notes from their visits to the Survivorist churches, trying to rekindle her memory in case she'd seen a man matching Allri's description somewhere. “We questioned everyone else, too, but he was the only one who appeared to be hiding something.”

“Then we'll light a fire under him. Push him until he's ready to talk.”

“No good. He's refused to talk to us unless he has his attorney present,” Marasi said.

“To you, maybe. Perhaps we can give him some incentive.”

Marasi peered up from her notes to scowl in Wax’s direction. “Surprisingly,” she said, “the answer to everything is not punching it until it yields. If he finds out you are affiliated with the constabulary—which is no secret, mind you—he’ll file an official complaint, if not press charges.” And once again, the constabulary would take the heat for Wax’s misconduct. He was an asset most of the time, to be sure, but his supposed ‘intervention’ often veered chaotically in the direction of vigilantism.

“We’ll be discreet. What he doesn't know won't hurt him,” Wax insisted. “Wayne?”

“I’ll be along in a tick. You go ahead without me.”

Waxillium shrugged his duster on and disappeared out the door, leaving Wayne and Marasi in the constabulary break room. The constabulary was relatively quiet for the time of day, but undoubtedly the stillness was a fragile thing; soon, someone was bound to drag in a rowdy drunk or a weepy witness and the relative silence would shatter.

“I thought you'd be jumping to his side now that he seems to be back in business,” Marasi commented, returning to her notes. Wayne slouched across from her at the table, arms folded on the wooden surface.

“Yeah,” he said, sounding distracted, “me too.” That made Marasi glance back up, the faintest of frowns creasing her brow.

“Is something wrong?”

“Not really. 'S just, I guess I was gettin' used to runnin' around with you for this case. Kinda weird to be back at it with Wax.”

“Good weird or bad?”

“I dunno. Just weird, y'know?”

Marasi did know, or thought she did. While it was nice to see Wax well on his way to recovery, it was nice, for a time, to have something that was simply hers. She had just started falling into some sort of rhythm working with Wayne, but Wax was a hurricane throwing the world into disarray around him as he tried to piece things back together.

“Well,” Marasi said, leaning her chin on her palm, “hopefully with him helping out, we'll be able to find this fellow before he hits again.”

Wayne hummed in agreement and stood to leave, but Marasi called out to stop him. “Wayne?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For eavesdropping.” It felt odd to say it, but when she'd noticed him sitting a few tables behind her, she'd felt distinctly safer. Amusement flickered to life on his face, smoothing out the slight frown she'd barely registered, and his mouth tugged into a lopsided smile.

“Aw, it wasn't nothin’,” he said, shrugging. “Just lookin' out for my mate in case he turned out to be a serial killer. He'd have a real tough time thinkin' of something to paint on your wall. ‘Writes too much in that rustin' notebook’, maybe.”

“Your concern is truly touching,” Marasi deadpanned with a gentle roll of her eyes.

“Just doin' my duty, ma'am.” He tipped his hat, grinned at her, and ambled out the door.

*** * ***

The butler was another dead end, like Marasi said he'd be. He took one look at Wax and Wayne and might as well've started hollering bloody murder for all he insisted he wouldn't talk to them. When he started to get real testy, Wayne decided to tug Wax away, remembering what Marasi mentioned about getting the constabulary in trouble. Normally, Wayne wouldn't care much, but if there was one thing drilled into his head from his time helping out around the precinct, it was that when people filed complaints or charges, there was even _more_ paperwork involved.

One day, they were gonna figure out that Wayne should be the one doing all the paperwork, and he wasn't about to let that happen. Plus, they'd have a rusting awful time prosecuting the fellow thanks to something Marasi was always going on about. ‘Dew progress’ or something.

“Damn,” Wayne said emphatically as they left. “We shoulda asked him how his ma is. That always helps. Never did understand why kindly inquirin’ after a man’s family got such a reaction out of a person.”

“We could’ve asked the other household staff. He says he was with the housekeeper. If we press her, maybe we’ll be able to puncture a hole in his statement.”

“We already tried that, mate. She wasn’t tryin’ to pull one over on us nearly as much as the butler was. He’s the only one what’s got somethin’ to hide, so that’s why he won’t talk to us ‘less he’s got a lawyer.”

“Damn,” Wax said. He trailed off in thought as he stalked back toward the carriage. Running out of leads again, and not nearly close enough to finding the killer. “Is Marasi onto anything?”

Wayne hesitated. He and Wax had worked on hunches before; it wouldn’t be the first time they acted on an instinct. The thing with Wax was that he was real good at breaking things and making stuff blow up, but he just wasn't made of the right stuff for doing subtle work. Wayne hadn't thought Marasi was, either, but she'd said all the right things and Kelrose seemed to have eaten it up. Maybe, just maybe, this was the sort of thing they were better off pursuing without Wax. He was a good copper and a better man, but subtlety and infiltration… not his strong suit.

“Nah,” Wayne said finally. “She can work that angle on her own.”

“Are you sure? I know she’s capable, but if she’s out of her depth—”

“She’s fine, mate. I think she's got a good handle on it. She’s got an in, we don’t.”

With some reluctance, a crease forming in his brow, Wax relented. “Just let me know if she needs any help.” He checked his timepiece and if looks could kill, that pocket watch would’ve been a goner.“I have to go help Steris with something, but I’d like your help after. The constabulary has a series of assaults happening in the same area of town around the same time every week, and I think I know how to catch him.”

“Sure,” Wayne agreed. Instead of climbing into the carriage, Wax launched himself into the air with a steelpush, and he ascended toward the sky, leaving Wayne to direct the cabbie back to Marasi’s place and climb into the coach.

*** * ***

“I think it’s pretty evident that he’s metalborn of some sort,” Marasi mused. Earlier in the evening, she’d arrived home to find Wayne, making himself comfortable on her couch. She did tell him he was always welcome, she supposed, so it wasn’t like he wasn’t within his rights to do so. “But I doubt he’s a Soother or a Rioter.”

“Look,” Wayne said. He was, once again, stretched out on her couch, hat tipped over his face. Marasi was beginning to theorise that he only had two states: one of perpetual motion, and one of perpetual idleness. “I know this case is important ’n all, but you gotta think about somethin’ else at some point.”

“What do you mean?” She turned to him, frowning faintly.

“D’you ever, I dunno, do anythin’ relaxing?”

“Of course I do things to relax.”

“Like what?”

“Out of curiosity, what do you think all of these books are for? Kindling?” She gestured to her walls, lined with a couple of bookcases.

“I thought they was the sort of thing you just kept for show. Like Wax’s books. He never opens ‘em.”

Marasi smiled. “A number of them are from school or on theory, but most of them are for reading. I also go to the range with the ladies from the shooting club once a week.” Wayne thumbed through one of the books sitting on Marasi’s coffee table. A mystery novel, this time. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” he said. “Was startin’ to think you never relax.”

“That’s because I never have time to relax around you,” Marasi retorted. “There’s a rather alarming correlation between the times I’m around you and Wax, and the times I’m being shot at. In fact, I’d say the relationship is heading dangerously towards ‘causation.’”

“I ain’t know anythin’ about castration, but you got a point.”

“Caus— no, never mind.”

Wayne smirked beneath his hat. _Damn him._ Of _course_ he knew what causation meant. Before Marasi could say anything more, there was a knock at the door. Immediately, Wayne sat up, at attention. “You expectin’ someone?”

“No,” Marasi replied slowly. Wayne gave her a meaningful look and she nodded, retrieving the gun from her fireplace mantle. She edged toward the door hesitantly, Wayne close behind her. He snatched his duelling canes from where they rested behind her couch, and the deadbolt _clicked_ as Marasi turned it. She only cracked the door open, keeping the chain latch securely in place in case someone tried to force their way through.

Nobody was there. She eyed Wayne and gave a slight shake of her head, but leaned closer to the door to see if she could spot anyone in the vicinity. Still nothing. Then, she noticed a little card on her front doorstep. Unhooking the chain, Marasi pulled the door open wider and bent to pick the card up.

It smelled like marewill.

Marasi stepped back inside and shut the door. She frowned as she examined the card. It also had the teardrop-shaped petals of a marewill flower on the front, and florid script trailed on the back. She felt her eyes widen as she read it.

“Marasi? What is it?”

Marasi held the card out for Wayne to read. “I think I just got an invitation to join a cult.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am honestly way too much of a criminal justice nerd for this. I can't believe Kelrose uses the Reid technique on a DATE. Anyway, this is about the point where I start using some Dubious Metalborn Speculation, but hey, this is FANFICTION. I can do what I want.


	9. The Silence Settles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Undercover infiltrations of varying seriousness occur, Marasi and Wayne have some nice Broments, Wayne is an expert on romance literature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a truly miraculous turnaround time, but in my defence, I had an ENORMOUS amount of fun writing this chapter. Sorry I got a little Criminal Justice-y at the end there; I haven't gotten enough sleep for the past 4 days and I can feel my soul trying to escape from my body. Anyway, I had a lot of fun making this a good chapter for interaction between Wayne and Marasi, and advancing the plot (though it may not be immediately apparent).
> 
> THIS CHAPTER IS DEDICATED TO SIAN. HAPPY BDAY SIAN, IM SORRY THIS CHAPTER IS LACKING IN MINION MEMES.

“No. Absolutely not.” Waxillium paced, wearing a path on the rug in his study. His hands rested firmly on his hips, and a deep frown clouded his face.

A flush of irritation ran hot through Marasi’s veins. “And why not?” She challenged, crossing her arms as she glanced in Wax’s direction.

“It’s too dangerous,” he insisted, rounding toward her.

“And since when has that stopped you or Wayne, hmm? I’ve got a way in, and there’s a chance it might help with the case.”

“A chance is not a certainty.”

“Like you haven’t worked on hunches before,” Marasi retorted, a little more snap in her voice than she intended.

“That’s different,” he said harshly.

“How is it different? From where I’m standing, it looks identical.”

“If this is about trying to prove yourself—”

“ _Prove_ myself?” Marasi’s voice rose and her jaw tensed. “This isn’t about _proving_ myself, Waxillium, it’s about doing the right thing! I’ve ‘proven myself’ a dozen times over, and I’ve long since stopped trying to impress you.”

“Wayne, talk some sense into her,” Wax sighed, sounding as exasperated as Marasi felt.

Wayne, sitting on one of Wax’s chairs, glanced between the two of them. _Here we go,_ Marasi thought. Doubtless Wayne would side with Wax, and then she would have to—

“She’s right, mate,” Wayne said slowly. “Marasi knows the risks, and if she’s got a way in, she should take it.”

“You, too?” Wax groaned, rubbing a hand over his face.

“It’s a good hunch.”

“I still don’t think she should do it. It’s reckless if this Colt fellow is half as suspicious as you say he is, and that’s an unnecessary risk if it turns out he’s uninvolved with these murders. She shouldn’t be putting herself in front of the barrel of a gun, period, let alone on a gut feeling.”

“Rusts, stop talking about me as if I’m not in the room!” Marasi finally burst out, frustrated. “This is _my_ choice, Waxillium Ladrian. It won’t be the first time I’ve been in the fire and I’m damn sure it won’t be the last, but at least this time I’ll be stepping in front of the gun of my own accord. It’s far more than I can say of all the other times I’ve been in your company.”

She stood up in a quick motion. “This is my case. Don’t you dare try to block the progress of this investigation with your hypocrisy.”

With that, she stormed out of the room.

Marasi sat on the back porch of Fourteen Ladrian Place for a long while afterward. The chill night air bit into her skin, colliding against the warm blush that still rose in her cheeks.

After her outburst, she felt stupid and childish. She didn’t much care if Wax thought her to be either of those things, but it was infuriating to know that such shows of emotion would only cement his preconceptions that she shouldn’t be trusted with important tasks.

To think she once had feelings for him. These days, it often seemed that the only thing she felt for him was annoyance.

The door creaked open behind her and Marasi’s head whipped around. Wayne settled down beside her.

“That went well,” he said cheerfully, leaning back on his hands and stretching his legs out.

“Did it? Because I feel like a fool.”

“’S good for you,” Wayne said. “Smart folk need to remember how to be idiots sometimes. Wax agreed you should do it.”

“I don’t need his permission,” Marasi grumbled, folding her arms as much out of stubbornness as the cold.

“I know you don’t. God Beyond help any man what tries to tell _you_ what to do.” The familiar cheeky smile slanted across Wayne’s face; Marasi felt some of her annoyance sluice away.

“Guess I should go back in there and apologise.”

“After that exit?” Wayne’s grin twitched in amusement. He glanced up at the stars twinkling overhead and she followed his gaze, staring into the dark, infinite beyond, soaking in the starlight and the silence of the evening. “He’s a good guy, you know. He’s just… not real used to hearin’ the word ‘no.’”

“I know. And I _am_ sorry for the outburst.” Well. Relatively.

“Aw, don’t be.” He bumped his shoulder against hers. “So, you’re gonna do it?”

“Yeah,” Marasi said, following it with a short sigh. “The meeting is next week, so I have a bit of time before it happens. If it really is some sort of cult meeting, I doubt he’ll just toss me into it immediately. The card says it’s a youth group, but you read it yourself. The wording is too… strange.” He nodded in agreement. There was too much emphasising the Survivor’s work, and some odd rhetoric that sounded borderline anarchical. “I’d… like to see about getting you into the group, too, if that’s alright with you. You know a lot more about this sort of thing than I do.”

Wayne tilted his head to look at her. Marasi pressed her lips together, hesitating; she could feel her cheeks heating. “And I’d also… feel a lot safer.”

He stood up. “C’mon. Let’s walk you home.”

Marasi stood, too, and straightened her skirt before they headed back around the house and in the direction of her flat. They walked in a comfortable silence. Her flat was a long way from Ladrian manor, but Marasi was thankful for the time to clear her head even if she felt more embarrassed the more she thought about the earlier outburst. It was uncalled for, even if she had meant everything she said. There was no reason to be petty when Wax genuinely was trying to look out for her—even if his intentions were misled, at best.

“You really want me to help with this?” Wayne asked at length.

“Like I said, I’d feel a lot better about it,” she admitted, feeling self-conscious, especially after emphasising her own competence and the capability to make her own choices.

She shivered. Most of the time, the Elendel Basin was temperate, but nights often got cold.

Wayne paused to shrug out of his duster and offered it to her. She took it gratefully and draped it around her shoulders, huddling into the warmth. “Thanks,” Marasi mumbled.

“If you can get me in, mate, I’ll be there.”

“In the meantime, do you think you could give me a few pointers on… well, blending in? I might have fooled Kelrose, but I can’t be sure I’ll fool his friends, too.”

“That, I can do. We got a week to work with, right? Should be enough time to not get you killed.” He paused as they reached the door to her flat and she pulled off his duster to give back to him. “Uh, you can hold on to that a mite longer, if you want.”

Marasi squinted at him, suspicious. “Why?”

“Well, y’see, Wax’s housekeeper said I need to start doin’ my own laundry, and I ain’t much good at it, so I was thinkin’—”

“ _Wayne,_ ” Marasi exhaled. Survivor’s scars, what had she done to deserve the ultimate babysitting job? Still, for some reason, she took the damned duster inside and tossed it in with her other laundry.

*** * ***

Marasi’s book club convened once every few weeks. It consisted mostly of her friends from the University, plus a few ladies she’d met in the prosecutor’s office and the constabulary. It used to be a weekly thing, and then once every two weeks, but now it was a little more informal due to everyone having their own schedules and lives. Because of the murders, Marasi hadn’t made it recently, but Reddi finally realised how much overtime she had been working and sent her home to relax. Technically, she was still on call should anything happen at the precinct, but unless catastrophe struck, she was looking forward to unwinding and discussing books with her friends.

The book they’d read most recently was a Roughs adventure romance. Pretty standard fare, but decent enough.They met at different places, rotating locations, and this time, Marasi was hosting. She had a few cakes set out and the water was boiling for tea.

Marasi rushed to the door when she heard a knock, letting Lady Marewill Ryden and Lillen Ambrose into her flat. Marewill was a tall, beautiful woman, with pale brown hair and blue eyes as sharp as knives. Lillen was her opposite, short and curvy with flaxen curls and round pink cheeks.

“Marasi,” Marewill said with a graceful smile. “I can’t believe we’ve never been to your place before. It’s positively darling!”

Lillen gave Marasi’s hand a squeeze and proceeded into the sitting room. “I don’t know,” she said slyly. “I don’t think she’s got enough books.”

Marasi closed the door with a smile. “I’m not that bad,” she protested. That said, aside from the books lining her numerous bookshelves, she had two more shelves in her room, and there were still books packed away in her attic. “Especially considering Mare has an entire library.”

“I’d say you’re well on your way to making one of your own,” Marewill replied wryly. Among their group, she was the only one who was full nobility; Lillen and Senna, the other two in their group, came from families of considerable fortune but had no title, and Elanor, the fifth member, was neither, but often found herself an exception to most rules.

All four ladies—excepting Elanor—were graduates from Elendel University, where they had met. Senna and Marasi were the only two in the criminal behaviour program; both Lillen and Marewill studied literature, but Marewill was also a scholar of history.

No sooner had Marasi poured the tea than there was another knock at the door. When she opened it, Senna Redan beamed widely and threw her arms around Marasi—a task easier said than done considering Senna was _very_ pregnant.

“Harmony’s forearms, it’s been so long! I haven’t seen you since the arrangements for the Innate case. What a mess that was!” Senna happily took Marasi’s hand and shut the door behind her; she steadied herself against Marasi’s shoulder as she struggled out of her shoes. Her usually neat shoulder-length hair was in a slight disarray and her tanned face was coloured with a healthy flush.

Shoes promptly shucked aside, Senna ambled over to the couch and sank into it, sighing contentedly. Marasi watched, amused. She both pitied and envied Senna’s future child; Senna was an absolute force of fury in the courtroom, and Marasi had been on the receiving end during mock trials as her friend tore well-concocted arguments apart like they were wet pages.

The three ladies launched into an exchange of pleasantries and Marasi sat to chat with them while they waited for their final member. When the knock finally came at the door, Marasi stood up to get it.

“Is that Ell?” Senna called after her.

“Should be. She said she’d be a bit late because she had to close up shop first.” Marasi opened the door.

And blinked up at the face of a strange woman.

She was tall, her face powdered and her lips painted pink. Her clothing was modern, but quite modest and perhaps a little warm for the weather they were having. There was something vaguely familiar about her, and—

“I’m sorry, am I late?”

Marasi’s eyes bulged. The voice was pitched up considerably, but still a little lower than Marasi was expecting.

_Wayne._

“What,” Marasi hissed, “are you doing here?”

Wayne winked and pushed past her, into the flat. “Oh, I hope I’m not interrupting,” she— _he!_ —said, smiling at Marasi’s friends. “Marasi invited me to your book club a few weeks ago. Is that alright?”

He did a convincing impression, copying Marasi’s own accent perfectly. The ladies struck up a chorus of “of course we don’t mind”s and “Marasi should have told us we were expecting someone else”s.

“Are you going to introduce your friend?” Marewill asked, her attention turning to Marasi, whose jaw had gone slack.

“Um, yes,” she hemmed. “I— sorry, I just wasn’t sure— this is my friend…”

“Vinnis Taringale,” Wayne said with a pleasant smile and a flawless little curtsey. “A pleasure.”

Marasi’s friends introduced themselves and ‘Vinnis’ made herself comfortable… in Marasi’s favourite chair. “How did you meet Marasi?” Lillen asked. Another knock sounded at the door; Marasi’s heart sank and she went to answer it. Behind her, she could hear ‘Vinnis’ spout some story about meeting through Marasi’s work as a constable. ‘Vinnis’ was a woman of simple means, an owner of a flower stall, but received rudimentary education and was very fond of books.

Cracking the door open, Marasi stared at Elanor’s smiling face. “Miss me?”

“Ell! You’ve arrived just in time. Marasi invited a new friend,” Senna called cheerfully. Had Senna ever met Wayne? Marasi hoped not. Elanor was sharp; she might notice something off about their ‘new friend.’ Luckily, she didn’t seem to notice and they all settled around the coffee table to discuss the novel.

“Have you had time to read the book?” Marewill turned to Wayne. Marasi gave him a sharp look, which he ignored.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I quite enjoyed it, although I wouldn’t know much about realism. I do love adventure stories, but I can’t claim I know much about the Roughs. What about you, Marasi?”

Marasi, staring hard at Wayne, floundered for a moment as four heads swiveled to look at her. She felt a blush creep onto her cheeks. “I— well, the scene where they kiss on top of a moving train was very unrealistic.” The other ladies nodded.

“But amusing,” Elanor added.

“And so romantic,” said Wayne. Lillen and Marewill seemed to agree with this.

“What was your favourite part, Vinnis?” Marasi asked suddenly. A moment later, she regretted it. What if Wayne hadn’t actually read the book? How the hell was she going to explain it if she revealed that Vinnis was actually a man named Wayne with a penchant for kleptomania and wearing disguises? Elanor would certainly get a kick out of it. All of them would, really, but Marasi would never live it down.

“My favourite part?” Wayne thought about it for a moment. “I liked the shootout in the chapel a lot. The way Lady Imela stepped up and demonstrated that wits can be more powerful than merely firing a gun… such an astonishing, powerful moment.”

Marasi clamped her mouth shut to keep herself from gaping.

The hours passed and ‘Vinnis’ made pleasant conversation with the other ladies; they discussed the book and decided on which one to read next, this time a romance novel. Eventually, Marasi’s friends cleared out of her little flat and said goodbye while ‘Vinnis’ volunteered to stay and help Marasi clean up so the other ladies could be on their way without worrying about the mess they left. Senna, who was hosting the next meeting, begged ‘Vinnis’ to join them again, and ‘Vinnis’ bashfully said that she would be honoured.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind Senna, Marasi turned a flat look to Wayne.

“What in _ruination_ was that?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Constable Colms,” said Wayne, in Vinnis’ voice. Then, he chuckled in his regular voice and immediately set to shucking his wig. Next went the gloves, the coat, and then he proceeded to struggle out of the rest of his disguise.

“For Harmony’s— do you have to change here? You can do it in the washroom, you know!” Marasi set to clearing the table, giving her a distraction from watching as Wayne essentially stripped in her living room.

She glanced up and he was already changed into his trousers and shirt; his duster rested across the back of the couch.

“I was just testin’ how well you keep calm when somethin’ weird happens.”

“Wayne,” Marasi sighed, an alarmingly often occurrence of late. “You’ve seen me held at gunpoint before. One would think I can keep my head if something goes awry.”

“Those people with Kelrose’re gonna be lookin’ a lot closer than your friends were today,” Wayne pointed out. “And if they’d’ve caught me, the worst that’d happen is embarrassing you. Far as I know, they ain’t gonna try to shoot you if they figure you’re hidin’ something from them.”

“You don’t know Senna,” Marasi grumbled.

Wayne hesitated and then gave a little shrug. “Point is,” he said, “this was a place where you could make a mistake and it’d just cost you some embarrassment. Not your life.”

“I suppose you have a point. How did I do?”

“You ain’t a completely lost cause.”

“High praise.” A touch of wryness laced Marasi’s tone.

“You didn’t throw your tiny plate and scream, so it could’ve gone worse.”

Marasi, holding a teacup and saucer in each hand, raised her brows at him. He chuckled.

“Just tell me one thing. You actually read the book, didn’t you? Did you pick it up while we were going over the Hastings case?”

“That’s two things, mate,” he noted. “But nah, I read it a couple years ago. Dunno why the ladies in Weathering were all aflutter over it. That kiss on top of the train was ‘specially unrealistic.”

“Speaking of unrealistic,” Marasi said, “your blouse wasn’t buttoned right.”

Wayne’s jaw sagged, and Marasi grinned back at him.

*** * ***

“Stop smilin’.”

“I’m not smiling,” said Marasi, who was definitely smiling, but trying to make it look like she wasn’t.

“Stop that.”

“Then stop making ridiculous faces at me!” Her face finally cracked, blooming into a bright smile.

Wayne exhaled the most beleaguered sigh he could muster. “This is _life or death,_ Marasi,” he said. Then, he stared deeply into her eyes, put on his most serene face, and imitated Wax’s voice. “Honey.” His voice was dead serious. “If you love me, would you please smile?”

Marasi pressed her lips together. Her face twisted up, nose scrunching. “You’re smilin’ again.”

“Because this is ridiculous!” She cracked again, snorting a laugh. “And I’m not going to be able to take you seriously when you sound so much… so much like _Wax_.”

Women! They just didn’t make any rusting sense. One would think imitating the love of her life wouldn’t reduce her to laughter every time. If Wax ever smartened up and she laughed in his face during his heartfelt confession, it’d fall to Wayne to fix things. _Again_. He did all the rusting work in this town—it was a wonder it hadn’t fallen apart sooner in his absence.

“I can imitate your pal Kelrose instead if that’s what—”

“Rusts, no!” Marasi interrupted him with a peal of clear laughter. “Frankly, I’m not certain if that would be better or worse.”

“Definitely worse,” Wayne said decisively, to which Marasi gave him a Look. He was getting real accustomed to her Looks. Not her _looks_ , mind, but Looks—look, it was a different thing entirely. “We gonna do this or not? You said you wanted my help.”

“I don’t exactly know this is what I had in mind.” She leaned her elbow on the table and cupped her chin in her palm, head canting slightly to the side. “Where did you learn this game, anyway?”

“Theatre troupe,” Wayne answered. “Spent a couple ‘a weeks with ‘em until they figured out my rusting nose was fake.” Marasi’s lips twitched in an amused smile. “They said it’s good for learnin’ to stay in character.”

It was kinda garbage, to be honest. A person didn’t need to do a bunch of exercises to test your poker face just to stay in character. Adopting a new persona was adopting a new voice and a new way of thinking. If you could think like the other person thought, you didn’t have to worry about dropping the mask, ‘cause it was your face.

That was advanced theory, though. No point in getting ahead—Marasi needed the real rookie stuff for now. “’S all about bein’ able to keep your face straight even when somethin’ weird happens, right? You hear Kelrose or one of his friends talkin’ about how they offed Lady Cett, you gotta be able to put on a smile and play dumb.”

“Hmm.” Marasi didn’t actually say anything to that, only looked at him with those big, clever eyes of hers. It was real odd. She was smart, and he knew it sure as steel, but sometimes he had to wonder just how much she saw. Every time he was around her, she was spouting some figure about how people acted, how groups thought. She was interested in outliers, she said, in places where there was deviation from the norm. Now, Wayne had a better opinion of himself than to consider himself ‘normal,’ and he usually didn’t care for what other people thought—most times, he could guess well enough.

Marasi, like a lot of others before her, seemed to have trouble piecing him together, but she was the sort who’d keep working at a puzzle until she had the full picture. She was like that. Wax’d always seen the smaller things; individual lives where he’d made a difference, stacking them all in rows and adding them up to feel like he was doing something. Marasi was his opposite in a lot of ways.

Wayne could slot himself into any situation, into any society, and no-one would be the wiser, but he had no idea if he slotted so neatly into Marasi’s theories.

Her fingers tapped her cheek; the blush had died down as she listened to him. “So… it’s not as much about being ‘in character’ as being able to keep my cool if the situation gets out of hand?”

“Sorta. I mean, you’re not gonna be wearin’ a disguise, and you’ve been pretty good with watching what you say ‘round him, but if he’s got a bunch of his pals around, you gotta be extra careful.” It wasn’t a matter of incompetence; he’d seen her plug a man in the head with a bullet from fifty paces, and that was competence if he’d ever seen it. Thing was, if Wayne’s cover got blown and people started firing, he could at least get out of there quick and heal. Regular folk were too squishy.

“Any tips for things I absolutely _shouldn’t_ do?”

He shrugged. “I dunno, mate, you’ve probably learned most of it from your fancy lawyer classes. Don’t ask too many questions, talk like they talk but don’t try too hard, and don’t say anythin’ risqué.”

Marasi’s brow furrowed, lips pursing faintly in confusion. “Nothing risq—” Her eyes narrowed. “ _Risky_ , Wayne.”

He grinned. “Risky, sure. If you wanna say something risqué, it’s all yours. I’m sure Kelrose wouldn’t mi— ow!” Her pencil bounced off his arm. Wait. Pencil? He sat up and craned his neck, trying to peer over the lip of the table. That stupid notebook was in her lap. She’d been taking notes the entire rusted time. “You’re not gettin’ that pencil back now.”

“Nothing risky,” she prompted, procuring another pencil seemingly from thin air. Did her skirt have pockets? Rusts! That was genius. Whenever he got new lady disguises, they never had any pockets. “What else?”

“Just one more thing. It’s real important, so you gotta listen close.”

She leaned forward, expression open and eager. He waited expectantly.

“Yes? What is it?”

“Honey, if you love me—”

*** * ***

“You remember what I told you?”

“Verbal tracking, organic conversation, don’t push topics, don’t try anything _risqué_.” Marasi couldn’t hide a little smile when Wayne glanced up at her. “Honestly, Wayne, you’re acting like my mother. Soon you’re going to start setting me up on dates.”

“Well, I know this guy named Kelrose—”

Marasi felt her smile grow a little wider. It helped to have him joke; she was nervous about Kelrose’s supposed ‘youth group,’ and she couldn’t tell for certain, but it seemed like Wayne was anxious about it, too. “You sure you don’t want me to sneak in for if things start blowin’ up?”

“As much as I appreciate the offer, I think I should be fine. Provided Wax isn’t hiding in Mr. Colt’s back pocket.”

“Nah, you don’t have to worry ‘bout that. He won’t fit. I keep tellin’ him he needs to lift more weights.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“What are you lookin’ for again?”

They’d been over the plan a hundred times. At this point, Marasi felt she could recite it in her sleep. “Any hint that they resemble the recent radical Survivorists that have been cropping up. If so, they may have made contact with our perpetrator in the Hastings and Cett murders. I can also keep an eye out in case someone at the meeting matches Allri’s description.” It was all routine enough. She’d never done undercover work—undercover investigators received extensive training through the constabulary.

 _This is just like that,_ Marasi told herself. _You don’t even know if Kelrose is dangerous. Just get in, observe, and get out. And don’t mess it up, because if you do, the constabulary can’t bail you out of this one._ She took a deep breath. All easier said than done, but she’d made it this far.

“Alright, good. You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Hey.” Wayne’s hands settled lightly on her shoulders. Marasi glanced up at him; he gave her a cheerful grin. “You got this. If somethin’ happens, I’ll still be hangin’ around the building. Just, y’know, yell loud enough for me to hear you across the block.”

“Even _more_ reassuring.”

Grin unfaltering, Wayne straightened her collar, winked, and stepped to the side. Another deep breath. In. Out. She could do this.

Marasi stepped forward, out of the relative cover of the alley a block down from the Survivorist chapel. She hesitated at the double doors, struck with the itching compulsion to turn her head and glance back toward the alley, where she knew Wayne was almost certainly watching from a safe distance. Instead, she steadied her nerves and pushed one of the doors open, slipping inside.

*** * ***

Much to Marasi’s disappointment, the youth meeting was perfectly normal. It was more an open discussion than anything, and Marasi didn’t find herself participating much. There were a few youths with dark bags beneath their eyes, faces gaunt with exhaustion. They seemed shadowed by something, and Kelrose spoke captivating words about seeking light in dark places, finding sparks of inspiration in the smallest of places. He told them that, as discouraged and hopeless as they felt at that moment, the cruelty and unfairness of the upper class could not last forever; that change was on its way, and they had the power within their hands to rise above, to take their fates and society in their own hands, like the Survivor did, like his Heir.

They would ask questions once in a while, spill their souls in black and blue for all to see. One young woman had to work three jobs to put food on the table for her ailing father and three younger siblings. Another had his arm mangled in a carriage accident—no noble house would hire him, and his prospects were dim. A third had lost her family in a fire. She took work for a lesser lord, but he treated her cruelly. Marasi’s heart broke as she listened to their stories, and she watched as Kelrose used his words to rekindle the life within them.

The meeting lasted for a few hours until the young ones had to leave. Marasi took her time gathering her things and before long, Kelrose came to join her.

“I hope you weren’t too bored,” he said. Marasi glanced up and put on a smile. It wasn’t difficult.

“Not at all.” _Be genuine,_ she coached herself. _Tell the truth, but not too much of it._ “It’s good work you do here. The way those kids respond to you… it’s nothing short of impressive. You gave them hope. Like the Survivor did.”

He returned her smile, but this time, she caught the slightest flicker of _something_ beneath the impeccable veneer of charm. “I like to think this is my calling. I’m not the Survivor, but if I can give people something to live for, to work for, like he did…” He trailed off. Marasi waited in expectant silence for a brief moment.

“Then…?”

“I don’t quite know.” His smile tugged up a little at one side, lopsided, only one cheek dimpling. “I view working with young people as the greatest honour a person can have. To shape an entire generation is both an enormous privilege and an enormous burden. Giving them something to strive for in light of the current state of society is the least I can do. Perhaps then, even if I’m not around to see it, I can inspire a measure of change for the better.”

Something about that made Marasi uncomfortable. Was he trying to leave the same sort of legacy that the Survivor had? But Kelsier had been alive at a time when rebellion was necessary to overturn a tyrannical regime. Things had changed greatly since then.

_Play along, Marasi. Find common ground, let the conversation blossom._

“I feel the same way,” she said. “I suppose that’s why I joined the constabulary—I was at the prosecutor’s offices first, as you know.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned.” His careful, warm interest returned back to her, in the same way it often did during their interactions. “You must feel a great deal of passion for seeing justice done.”

“That’s a part of it, certainly. I’ve always been the sort of person who prefers to look at the macro as opposed to the micro, however, and I suppose that’s why I’ve been feeling a little misguided of late.” Kelrose watched her, gaze steady. “It’s hard to wade through day after day after little things and feel like I’m making a difference that matters.”

“What would change that, do you think?”

“I’m not sure.” Marasi hesitated. Wayne had said not to, but… She glanced up at Kelrose’s unwavering interest, weighed the sense that he was _testing_ her somehow. Then, she did something risky. “Sometimes it seems like the laws are not as effective as they should be. They were made to establish equality, to not only hold everyone to the same standards, but to put all people on equal footing whether the richest lord in Elendel or the poorest man in the slums. Instead, all too often, what I see is the influential side-stepping the law and using it to impose restrictions on other people.”

Now, she really seemed to have Kelrose’s attention. She continued, channelling the most reasonable of her frustrations—the part of her that believed in the system, but believed that it could be better. “This isn’t the paradise that the Lord Mistborn imagined, the free and equal society that the Survivor died for. Instead, we live in a city where the poor suffer and the rich make it possible. The people around me consistently have to step outside of the law so the right people pay for their crimes, and I’d be lying if I said that I haven’t had to do the same. It isn’t right. Sometimes, I think…” She took in a deep breath; it shook with her nerves, shuddering within her chest. “Sometimes, I think that if we really want things to change for good, we need to induce it ourselves. Through whatever means necessary.”

Kelrose’s eyes had softened immensely, and his face wore a warm, almost reverent expression. “Do you mean that?” He asked quietly.

“Yes,” Marasi breathed.

“Can I show you something, Miss Colms?”

Marasi nodded. Kelrose led her toward the tiny prayer room to the side of the altar. It was cramped, but he nudged the small shrine to the Survivor toward the back of the room, and as he pushed it, it revealed a stairway down into some sort of basement. “You’re going to have to trust me,” he said, and offered his hand to her. As he did, his sleeve slipped above his wrist, revealing the start of the ritualistic scars Wayne had mentioned well over a month ago.

Common sense screamed ‘no.’

Marasi took his hand and they descended down the barely-lit stairwell.

When her eyes adjusted, her breath caught in her throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, this Kelrose stuff is actually relevant. But where's the MURDER, HANNAH, you say. And to that I reply, you're totally fair in your criticism. Out of nine chapters, only two of them have contained murder. Tragically, serial killers don't Work Like That and I need a reasonable gap between murders for realism purposes. Anyway, thank you guys for actually sticking with me? You're all amazing???


	10. When the Darkness Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out more about Kelrose and take a brief jaunt down a totally unrelated and totally unnecessary trope road. There is FINALLY MORE MURDER, plus some mild arson. There is a lot of teasing, blushing, and evidence that Wayne may be amping up his emotional sensitivity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god you guys, with this chapter, if I don't hit 50k words, I will be there VERY shortly. Also! I've finished planning out the rest of Part One of this fic, which takes place in between SoS and BoM. We've got six or seven chapters left, depending on how the wordcount goes for my plans, and then this part will be done! 
> 
> Unfortunately, the next chapter probably won't be happening until the end of May or June sometime, due to finals and a three-week trip to Europe to look at PRISONS!

Wayne sat perched on an empty wooden crate, whistling as he carved a slightly bruised apple into pieces. He’d been sitting, whistling, and carving, for three rusting hours, and while he wasn’t running out of tunes, he was running out of things to carve. He’d been saving the apple for later.

Finally, he caught a glance of movement from the direction of the church. Wayne didn’t stare openly; he just kept whistling and whittling as the church doors swung open and people began slipping out.

He waited for a few minutes, but Marasi wasn’t among them. Neither was Kelrose. That could mean one of two things—either they was getting _real_ closely acquainted in the carnal sense, or she was finding out what kinda weird stuff he was involved in. Or both, depending on how messed up Kelrose was.

Third option was that she was getting murdered. Wayne’d have a hell of a time explaining that to her sister and Wax.

Wayne stretched and clambered to his feet, popping a piece of apple into his mouth. Glancing around, he wandered over to the back of the church.

The back door was locked this time, but Wayne juggled his apple into his palm, pulled a few of Marasi’s hair pins from his pocket—he’d traded them for one of Wax’s pens, and in his defence, had seen her using the pen recently—and worked them in the lock until he heard a _click_.

Wayne cracked the door open. Darkness. He paused, listening. Half a minute passed, and then he heard voices.

“—about her?”

“I can’t guess what Kelrose is thinking, but I assume he knows what he’s doing. It’ll be useful to have a constable in our pocket, but if it’s some sort of sting…”

“It’ll be messy if we have to put a conner down.”

“If Kelrose knows what he’s getting into, I trust him. He’s not one to get distracted by a pretty face.”

The other person hummed thoughtfully. Wayne heard footsteps retreating, and the voices faded as their owners walked away. After another minute, Wayne snuck into the back room. From there, he scouted the rest of the building until he was satisfied that nobody was around to yell at him for snooping. Unfortunately, that also meant that he’d found no evidence that Kelrose or Marasi were in the chapel, either.

Where would he be if he was trying to hide something? Or, y’know, get frisky with Marasi?

The prayer room seemed like the best bet since he’d already checked the altar and they weren’t there. He used the bendalloy trick again, throwing a bubble up so he could peek in through the door. Marasi and Kelrose weren’t there, either, but he did find a stairway stretching way down beneath the church. He waited, hovering above it for a few moments to see if he could hear any noises from below. More voices, retreating—a man and a woman, but different from the voices he’d heard in the church minutes ago. One of them sounded like Marasi.

He snuck down into the darkness, shoving another piece of apple into his mouth. The walls were lined with stone, and sconces lit the way every few feet—electric, not gas. Wayne inched along the wall, listening hard for any indication of people approaching. Nothing.

The stairway eventually levelled off and opened into a large corridor. Open doorways were scattered along the wall; Wayne carefully passed these, peeking in beforehand to make sure nobody was in the rooms to notice his trespassing. The first room contained nothing but crates. The second was full of what looked like printing presses. More crates. A room with boxes and a table full of what looked like gun parts. Another looked like a lab. Chemistry?

Rusts, this was bad. Clearly Kelrose had some sort of endgame in sight, and if he was showing Marasi this much, this fast, he obviously wasn’t worried she posed a viable threat. It had to be a scheme of some sort.

Wayne trailed their voices to another room that looked like an office from what little he could see of it, and ducked behind a pile of empty crates as he strained to hear Marasi and Kelrose’s conversation.

“What is this?” she gasped, breathless. He could hear the spike of fear, but Kelrose didn’t know her; he’d probably only interpret it as surprise.

“Change, Marasi,” he said, his passion sparking in the air. Wayne could almost feel the air catching fire in response. “Most of this is just pamphlets, encouraging the lower and middle classes to take what’s theirs. Something needs to change in the Elendel Basin. Our bureaucracy isn’t doing anything. The poor starve, and the rich gorge themselves on our labour. Even your justice system works to protect not the innocent, but those who can _afford_ innocence.”

 _Damn._ He knew his audience. Not well enough, in the end, but he knew a bit. Maybe Wayne wasn’t giving Kelrose enough credit.

There was a pause that weighed heavily in the air. Wayne could picture the expressions flickering across Marasi’s face—conflict, frustration, resignation, and finally, acceptance.

“What do you suggest?”

“Help me,” Kelrose insisted. He had the soft, smoky sort of voice that women went crazy for. Wayne could still see it in the back of his mind. Kelrose, reaching out to clasp Marasi’s hands earnestly, capturing her gaze in his, putting on a slight, hopeful half-smile. “We’ve tried changing the way the structures work, but it’s not enough. Beautiful, brilliant women like yourself are still underestimated. Young people with all the potential in the world are stifled because the structures don’t let them step up. Innocent people rot in prisons while the guilty walk free. We can fix it. You and me. But we have to tear down the old structures first.”

Wayne knew what she’d say if she could have. She would have argued that although those very structures weren’t perfect, they weren’t a lost cause; that even now, change was coming to Elendel.

Instead, she said: “Where do we start?”

Wayne popped another piece of apple into his mouth, frowning. He shuffled to the edge of the doorframe and peeked in just enough to see in time to see Kelrose smile brightly at Marasi.

“I knew you were what this organisation needed. You’ll take this world by storm, Marasi Colms.” Kelrose raised his hand to cup her cheek, and Wayne saw the moment where panic truly gripped her. Wayne tensed. Marasi jerked back.

Shock pulled tight across Kelrose’s face for a split second. It was the most genuine emotion Wayne had seen out of him yet. He hadn’t been expecting that. Presumably, that routine always worked.

“I’m— I’m sorry,” Marasi stammered, face flushing red with mortification. “I didn’t— I just can’t, I’m sorry. I’m seeing someone,” she blurted.

 _Rust and ruin, Marasi, this was_ not _part of the plan!_

“Ah. I see,” Kelrose said, still surprised, but almost more disturbed than disappointed. “I’m the one who should be apologising, not you.” Something else crossed his expression, something Wayne got a real bad feeling from. “Is it your friend Wayne?”

Wayne shook his head faintly. She was gonna tell him that it was Wax—

“Yes.”

Wayne choked on his apple and scrambled away from the doorframe to keep from alerting them, eyes watering. Well. That _definitely_ wasn’t part of the plan. Coughing and sputtering, he took shelter in one of the open rooms full of crates and listened until he heard them walking back.

They left within a few minutes and when Wayne deemed it safe, he hurried back to their meeting place. Marasi was waiting there, pacing nervously back and forth. He bit down loudly into the last apple slice and chewed as obnoxiously as he could. Marasi whipped around, looking ready to jump halfway out of her frilly bloomers.

“Wayne!” She gasped.

“Oh, hey, honey,” Wayne drawled, grinning around a generous mouthful of apple. “Y’know, if you wanted t’ date me, all you hadda do was ask.”

Marasi groaned, covering her face with her hands. “You heard that? Rusts, of course you did. Probably for the best. He invited you to the next meeting.”

Wayne whistled. “What’d you tell ‘im to pull that off?”

“He asked about your involvement with Wax. I pointed out how good the two of you are at breaking things and posited that you’d be just as effective at breaking the government.”

“Oi, Wax’s the one what breaks things, not me,” Wayne objected, doing his rusting best to sound offended. Marasi frowned at him. “Fine, he’s the one what breaks _most_ things. I’m best at breakin’ _hearts_.” The frown deepened. She was real good at that. Scary good.

“I think this was a mistake and we should drop it while we’re ahead. Kelrose is clearly dangerous and I’m not convinced he fell for my act. We should just forget about the whole thing.”

Wayne feigned hurt. “Are you… breakin’ up with me? That’s cold, Marasi. Real cold. And here _I_ was supposed to be breakin’ hearts.”

Marasi made a little sound of frustration that sounded an awful lot like a growl. Kind of like a tiny kitten. A kitten what had real sharp claws and could hit a bullseye with a rifle from fifty paces. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Me? Nah, mate. I’m all about livin’ it _up_ , see.”

With a huff of annoyance, Marasi pushed past him, eyes already searching for a cab to take her back to her flat. “Aw, don’t be like that,” Wayne teased, dogging at her heels. “Kelrose’s definitely dangerous, but we’ve come this far, right? If you got me an in, ’s the least we can do to see it through.”

“That’s uncharacteristically honourable of you, Wayne.”

“Nah, I just wanna prove he’s the scum we know he is.”

“Ah. Yes, that sounds about right.”

“At least you don’t hafta hide how attractive you think I am no more. On account of how we’re _dating_ and all that.” He made his eyes big and batted them at her, leaning in close to her face. She promptly shoved him away by the forehead.

“I hate you so much sometimes.”

“That’s what you always say. And yet, here we are, happily dating. So, what’s your favourite pet name for me? I’m thinkin’ something real charming and affectatious—”

“—Affectionate—”

“—Like ‘snookums’ or ‘cuddly-wuddly-bear.’ Or ‘light of my rusting boring life.’ What d’you think?” He elbowed her. “C’mon. Try it out.”

The look she gave him was pure poison.

“I still think we should call it off,” she said.

“Aw, would it be that hard to pretend you like me? Just pretend I’m Wax, problem solved.” He lightly bumped his shoulder against hers.

“I suspect that won’t help anything,” said Marasi, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. Well, he tried. Wasn’t his fault if she didn’t accept his thoughtful assistance. “But…”

She drew in a heavy breath, visibly steadying her nerves. “I shudder to think of what might happen if mere pamphlets prove to be insufficient incentive for the people of Elendel to rise up and cast off our current leadership. The current balance is tenuous enough after Innate’s death. I caught a glimpse of some chemical reagents in his stores, and I recognise gun parts when I see them. If he believes it’s necessary to use more force, I don’t want Elendel thrown into anarchy.”

Now _there_ was a sensible attitude. “This means the plan’s changed a bit, though.”

Marasi had the decency to blush. “Yes. And I’m sorry. He simply— caught me by surprise.”

Wayne knew. He’d seen the fear flash across her face as she remembered every man who’d ever made a grab for her, every man who put a gun to her temple or a knife to her throat. It was basic self-defence, considering the situation, and although it changed their approach, he couldn’t totally fault her. Or, he could, but he’d be a real rusting git for it.

“’S fine,” he sniffed. “You’re just gonna have to do a _real_ good job of sellin’ it to Kelrose.” He leered at her. “But since I’m such a reasonable, magnificent bloke, I’m willin’ to take time outta my real important duties so we can practice how we’re gonna act as a couple.” Wayne waggled his eyebrows at her. “What d'you say?” He pursed his lips and made a few loud kissing noises at her.

“Oh, shut up,” Marasi grumbled, walking faster.

“Yes, ma’am,” Wayne said, trailing after her with a laugh.

*** * ***

Marasi was certain that this time, she would never stop blushing. Wayne had long since ceased his teasing, more for her benefit than the likelihood that he'd run out of ways to tease her. The conversation turned to more serious things—the murders, for one, and a series of unsolved arsons across the city. Though she was not well-versed in chemistry, Marasi had passable knowledge and knew that a few of the reagents she'd seen stored in one of the rooms were highly combustible. She hadn’t read about the arsons in much detail, but unlike most cases, they did not seem to be done for the sake of fraud. In the arson cases Marasi had studied, this was almost unheard of.

Whether or not Kelrose was involved in the series of murders or the arson, she did not know. It was beyond a stretch to assume he had anything to do with either, but the fact remained that he had the means with which to wreak similar havoc upon the city.

They took a cab back to Marasi’s flat. The original intention was to drop Marasi off and then Wayne would head back to the Ladrian manor to update Wax on the situation, but a very serious Constable Towery was sitting on her front doorstep, his helmet in his hands, a deep frown casting shadows over his eyes.

“What’s going on?” Marasi asked, stepping out of the cab. Towery perked up, brows rising.

“You’ll be wanting to step back into that cab, lieutenant. There’s been another murder and the sergeant sent me to get you.”

Constable Towery clambered into the cab with them. The trip down to the outer Second Octant was a long, cramped one, but the young, lanky constable did his best to inform them of the situation despite his limited knowledge.

“His name is Taricel Vadreaux,” said Sergeant Morveau when they got to the scene, escorting them through the cordoned-off area and leading them through the house. “The deceased was in his late sixties. He owns a lot of the railways going from Elendel through the Basin, and he’s recently acquired the main line going out to the Roughs. Seems to me he’s been imposing huge tariffs on cargo going out that way.”

Marasi frowned. She’d wondered why the name sounded familiar. He had been mentioned in Governor Innate’s papers, but Vadreaux squirmed his way out of prosecution. She knew his youngest son by reputation; the unpleasant young man who had approached her and Wayne at the charity gala a few months back. Corruption bred corruption. “Anyway,” Morveau continued, “it explains what we found on the wall this time.”

“Same signatures?” She questioned.

“More or less.” Morveau grimaced. They reached the door and the sergeant indicated they should go in, but he caught Marasi’s shoulder before she could pass through. “I’m not saying you’re not equipped to handle this, Lieutenant Colms, but that isn’t a sight I’d wish on anyone. I’d understand if you wanted to sit this one out.”

Politely, Marasi retracted from the staff sergeant’s grasp. “With all due respect, sir,” she said. “I can handle myself.” She continued into the room and a wall of overpowering fragrance crashed over her. Marasi fought down a surge of nausea and cased the room.

The nausea welled again.

“Marasi? Hey, you alright, mate?” Her gaze, glued to the red-stained wall, blurred at the edges. All sound had fuzzed to near-incomprehensibility, sounding garbled and faded. Distantly, she was aware of a hand catching her elbow as she swayed, but she swallowed and steadied herself.

Vadreaux had been decapitated, his head nailed to the wall with similar spikes to the ones present at the scene of Lady Renna Cett’s murder. In death, his jaw sagged limply, blood running down his cheeks like tears. The body had been discarded somewhere to the side, slumped carelessly in front of the desk. This time, the word painted on the wall was not in paint. The blood had browned faintly over time, the colour of rust.

 _Murderers_ , the now-familiar hand read.

 _Like the inquisitor killed by the Survivor,_ said the rational part of Marasi’s brain. She opened her mouth to voice her thoughts, but all that came out was a croaked, “I think I need to sit down.”

When Wayne was done taking inventory of the crime scene and had asked all the questions he deemed necessary, he joined Marasi outside, where she was questioning witnesses and staff. She finished her interview and he fell into step with her, peering at her carefully.

“You’re sure you’re alright? It was pretty rough in there.”

Marasi shivered. The image was burned into her mind whether she liked it or not—many things were. She liked to think she had a strong constitution when it came to these things, but they stacked up over time. For all she wasn’t supposed to be a field constable, she still bore witness to any number of horrific acts of humanity.

Sometimes, it was hard to keep faith in humanity's capability for good things when she was surrounded by all the bad. She hated to admit it, but it was times like that when Kelrose’s radical views became tantalising.

“I’m fine, really.” Emotional sensitivity from Wayne was low on the list of things she’d been expecting, but maybe he was more aware than he appeared. “Or. I will be.” They wandered a few yards away from the police barrier, Marasi hugging her arms around herself, Wayne a patient presence at her side with his hands shoved in his pockets. “Do you ever get used to it?” She asked.

Wayne was silent for a handful of moments. The seconds slipped between them like sand through fingers. “No,” he said finally, shaping the word with deliberate care, contrary to his usual drawl. “It don’t really get easier, neither."

“I think… I think I already knew that, but a part of me hoped…” She shook her head, slow, still seeing Vadreaux’s desecrated corpse in the back of her mind. “How do you begin to deal with something like that?”

Wayne shifted uncomfortably on his feet, eyes darting away from her. Marasi knew how _he_ dealt with it—or didn’t, as the case may have been. It was easy to seek solace at the bottom of a bottle, and well… talking about things as dark and terrible as lawmen saw on the job was beyond comprehension.

“When you find out,” he said, “you be sure to let me know. And Marasi?” She glanced up at him as he placed his hands gently on her upper arms, rubbing them awkwardly. His mouth curved into a faint, crooked smile. “You’re tough. Just ‘cause the world can be an awful place don’t mean it ain’t worth saving.”

“I know,” she answered with the ghost of a smile. It faded a moment later, and she heaved a sigh. “Well. I guess the next order of business is telling Wax and hoping he doesn’t run off in a huff.”

“’S like you don’t even know him,” Wayne complained. “The only things he’s better at doin’ than huffing are hitting things ’n shooting things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last little exchange between Marasi and Wayne--like most of their exchanges, to be honest--was totally unscripted and unplanned in every way. Most of you probably know that I study criminal justice, but a lesser-known fact is that I am very passionate about restorative justice (which there are some hints of in this fic) and mental health advocacy for criminal justice practitioners. 
> 
> This past week, there was a huge tragedy in my area that raised dialogue on mental health advocacy again, so the last exchange in this chapter came from a surprisingly personal place. I always intended to write this fic through my criminal justice lens, and I try not to stand on a soapbox TOO much (I fail horribly, I know), but I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you all from the bottom of my heart for putting up with me and my preaching. I love these characters and I love Scadrial, but I confess that my true love of this fic comes from the subject matter, and I guess my point is that I'm really glad I can share that love with all of you! Thanks for sticking around!
> 
> OKAY, HANNAH. SHUT UP, HANNAH. STOP BEING A SAP, HANNAH.


	11. Obey Your Guns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some headway is made in the effort to find the killer; Wayne and Marasi pay a visit to the Village. More importantly, Wayne tries (and fails) to catch up on some sleep, Marasi is a genius, and it's very possible that Wayne flirts with an old lady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by: the Ori and the Blind Forest soundtrack, innumerable lattes, and the determination to get this chapter done before I head off to Europe to look at prisons for three weeks. I skimmed this for any glaring errors, but it's almost 1 am and I have to be up in 5 hours to board a plane. I am SO SORRY.
> 
> Also, with this, I crest 50k. What is my entire life.

“I knew Vadreaux,” said Wax, settled in the chair nearest the hearth. Marasi sat on the same couch as Wayne did, though her ankles were folded all proper and she had her notebook on her lap. Wayne was trying to catch up on his sleep, seeing as conners was a ridiculous lot what didn’t think people needed to sleep. Wax was no exception to that. Awful. Just awful. “He wasn’t the most pleasant fellow, but he’s done some good things for Elendel.”

“He’s been starving people in the Roughs,” Marasi pointed out flatly. She did this thing when she got annoyed where her face got kinda pinched and she sucked the corners of her mouth in a little, like she’d eaten something sour. She did that now, and squinted at Wax, her big eyes shrinking down by about half. Or at least, that’s what Wayne expected she was doing. He had his eyes closed, on account of he was sleeping.

Wax sighed at the papers in his hands and and Wayne imagined him rubbing a hand over his chin. “This is the first I’m hearing of it,” he said, troubled. Marasi probably squinted more, her expression saying ‘well, it wouldn’t be if you’d read Innate’s accounts,’ which was real unfair. Wayne had read the accounts and he regretted every moment. The only thing all those numbers were good for was putting a bloke right to sleep.

He’d tried to make them more interesting with illustrations, but Marasi’d slapped his hands and spouted words like ‘tampering with evidence.’ Rusting unbelievable, was her nerve. He’d been doing the public a favour.

Finally, Wax (probably) nodded. “Either way, we need to find the killer soon. The nobles are getting antsy, and they’ll string Governor Aradel up for the failings of the constabulary if this doesn’t get resolved quickly,” he said.

Wayne had been keeping up with the news, and he had to agree. He didn’t like bureaucratic types, but Aradel was regular folk. Practical, not a fusspot like Reddi or a proper git like Innate had been. The nobles didn’t see it that way, naturally, ‘cause they were idiots.

“Not to mention,” Wayne said, “he’s gonna keep killing stuffy nobles if we don’t find ‘im.” He sat up suddenly, tugging his hat into his lap. “Say, y’don’t s’pose we can pay him to—”

“Wayne,” Marasi sighed, as Wax said “ _No._ ”

“Anyhow,” Wayne continued, “Morveau said we was allowed to go talk to Vadreaux’s son. He was actually there ‘round the time they think he was killed.”

“And he didn’t do anything? Huh. I knew he was a bastard, but I didn’t think he’d be that cold.” Wax shook his head, eye twitching faintly. Neither of them had a good history with Tarvin Vadreaux, though the bloke _really_ had it in for Wayne after an altercation a while back. “Either Tarvin was under some kind of mind control, or he’s a damn good actor.”

“Only thing he’s good at acting like is a total rusting git. And that’s the polite version, on account of there bein’ ladies present. If there hadn’t’ve been, I’d’ve said he was a—”

“Either way,” Marasi interrupted quickly, “we haven’t talked to him yet. From what I do know, however, he’s not nearly enterprising enough to capitalise on the recent murders.”

“Yeah,” agreed Wayne. “He ain’t bright enough to use good grammar, let alone capitalisation.” Marasi’s expression flattened like she was about five seconds from shooting him.

“So you don’t think he killed his father,” Wax concluded.

Marasi shook her head. “We’ve been keeping some facts of the case from the press so it’s obvious if a copycat shows up. In this case, we’ve kept quiet about the marewill and the words on the walls. Tarvin is surprisingly well-informed if he knew to include both of those in the murder of his father.”

Wax’s brow creased in thought as he pondered, then nodded slowly. “And what do you think of this other angle? That there’s some fellow running around Elendel that can control your mind?”

“It doesn’t sound like mind control, exactly, just…” Marasi frowned. “Hang on. Where are your books on Feruchemy?” Puzzled, Wax stood and went to his bookshelf, trailing his fingers along the spines until he found what he was looking for. He handed her the book and she immediately set to leafing through it.

“I dunno, mate, that maid the other day seemed pretty shook up ‘bout what she saw,” said Wayne, “and she really didn’t want us to do anything to the bloke what killed Lady Cett. She was”—he imitated Sergeant Morveau’s blustery bass—“‘entirely hysterical, suffering such a fit at the thought that we might harm the perpetrator.’” It was really just a fancy way of saying that she was talking sense nobody else wanted to hear.

“So she didn’t seem to be bluffing to you?” Wax asked.

“Ain’t never had a single run-in with the conners ’til now. What I can tell, Renna Cett wasn’t real awful to the staff, neither, least not ’til they had to clean all her blood outta the carpet.”

“The maid has no motive,” Marasi mumbled, nose still shoved in the book. Wayne could always tell when she was really engrossed in what she was doing ‘cause she didn’t glare at him for his comments.

Wax nodded slowly. “I suppose we should go talk to Vadreaux Jr., then. Wayne?”

Wayne made a face. Seeing Vadreaux was a bad idea, and normally, Wayne was up for bad ideas. Most of ‘em were his to begin with. “You remember what happened last year? He ain’t gonna wanna see me.”

“That’s… fair. Marasi, would—”

“No,” Wayne interrupted quickly. “She don’t want to talk to him, neither.”

“Ah. Yes, noted. I’ll tell you if he says anything interesting.”

Wayne gave him a salute, and Wax hurried out. Only then did Wayne notice that Marasi had ripped her attention away from the book and was staring at him intently, the beginnings of a frown brewing on her face like a storm cloud. “What?” He asked, digging a handful of nuts out of his pocket and shoving at least half into his mouth.

“I could’ve gone with him. It’s not me Vadreaux has problems with.” With a huff, she settled back and clutched her book to her chest, squinting at him. “What was your disagreement about, anyway?”

“He’s a real nasty bloke. Ran into him at the bar a year back and got after him for harassin’ one of the girls there.”

Marasi seemed like she was halfway between hitting him or thanking him. “I think I can handle myself, Wayne,” she said slowly, not accusatory like others might’ve been. “While I appreciate you’re looking out for me, this is a part of my job and I’m no stranger to men who are less than respectful.”

After a moment, Wayne relented. Vadreaux was a real piece of work, and at least when Wayne made rude comments, he didn’t really mean anything by it. Vadreaux meant every word and expected he’d get away with it.“I guess,” he said. He flashed her a grin. “‘Sides, you’d’ve put him straight. Put the fear of Marasi Colms into him.”

She laughed. “Or I wouldn’t have gotten anywhere and Wax would have had to do all the talking.” She settled the book back in her lap and subtly gestured with it. “I’m reading, anyway, so you did me a favour _this_ time. But next time? I don’t need protecting, alright?”

Wayne felt his smile settle into something softer. He didn’t usually worry about her because he knew she was plenty capable, but the thought of Vadreaux looking at her the way he’d looked at the serving girl in the bar left Wayne with the taste of ash in his mouth. She was already dealing with enough—she didn’t have to deal with that, too. “Gotcha.” He edged closer to her on the couch until he was nearly hanging off her shoulder, trying to peer at the book. It was a verbose thing with tiny print and the known information on the various Feruchemical metals and their properties. “Whatcha lookin’ for?”

“You said earlier that the effect over the young woman couldn’t have been Allomancy. I think you were right, but I was wondering if it could be Feruchemy instead. Something that allows a person to be completely, painfully aware of another individual one moment, and then completely overlook the very same person on another day?”

“I’m guessin’ you have a theory.”

For a moment, her eyes sparked alight with something bright and warm. “I have many theories. But,” she said, flipping back a few pages. “This is my pet theory right now.” She tapped the top of a seemingly very short chapter, titled ‘DURALUMIN.’ “I’ve been wondering why Lord Hastings, the first victim, might be compelled to kill himself, and why Lady Cett evidently sat there calmly as she bled out. To me, that sounds like the same sort of compulsion the maid was under.”

“Right,” Wayne agreed. “And you think duralumin’s the answer.”

“Look.” Marasi pointed to a sentence near the top. “‘Connecter Ferrings can store spiritual connection, reducing other peoples’ awareness and friendship with them during active storage, and can tap it at a later time in order to speedily form trust relationships.’”

“The kitchen staff at Hastings’ place not saying anything… plus the murders, and the maid’s statement,” Wayne mused. “This is a good shot, but it’s a bit of a far one. Ferrings aren’t real common. Luckily”—Wayne stretched and rolled to his feet, plucking his duster from the top of the sofa—“I know exactly who we should talk to ‘bout a Ferring on the loose. Let’s see if we can catch Wax on his way out. If not, we’ll meet up with him at Vadreaux’s place.” He gestured to Marasi, indicating she should follow, but paused on their way out the door. “This is still a long shot, y’know.”

“And luckily for you,” Marasi said confidently, the hints of a self-satisfied smile glancing over the corners of her lips. “I’m a _very_ good shot.”

*** * ***

There was still a motley gaggle of constables milling around the Vadreaux manor by the time Wayne and Marasi got there—Marasi was not terribly pleased to see Reddi there, but was considerably more relieved when she noticed the flock of reporters haranguing him about the murders. Not that she wished him ill, precisely, but he was more equipped to handle the masses than some unfortunate junior constable on her first job. When Reddi noticed their presence, he ended the interview perfunctorily and stalked after them, moustache bristling in annoyance. Hopefully, the annoyance was at the reporters, not Marasi or Wayne.

“Lieutenant!” Reddi called as he approached them. They stopped to let him catch up. “Lord Ladrian dropped by to talk to Tarvin Vadreaux. Are you here to join him?”

“No, we’re considering a different angle, sir. I believe we should consider Feruchemy being the reason for the maid’s peculiar behaviour earlier. Do you know anything about Connector Ferrings?” Marasi rummaged around in her handbag to hand Reddi the notes she’d taken on the cab ride. Embarrassingly, there were a few spots where her handwriting jumped erratically as they hit bumps in the cobblestones, but it was still better than nothing, and at least it was legible.

Reddi took the notes from her and skimmed them over. “Might be reaching a little, Colms.”

“I know, sir. But it’s something we didn’t have before, and we don’t lose anything by asking around.”

“We’re gonna have to go to the Village to ask,” said Wayne. “I know someone there who keeps tabs of all the Ferrings in the city, so if one exists here, she’s the one to ask.”

“Hmm.” Reddi crossed his arms, frowning. “They don’t like our constables poking around there, but if you have contacts there, it might be a way to get us in.”

“Wayne could do it by himself, sir,” Marasi suggested. “That way they can’t complain. As much.” She glanced sidelong at Wayne, who grinned guilelessly.

“No, I’d like you to go with,” Reddi said, nearly shocking Marasi out of her boots. “Might make these carrion-feeders calm down if they see the constabulary doing something, as much as the Terrispeople won’t like it.”

“It could also tip the killer off if we’re on the right track. He’s already escalating.”

Reddi considered this for a moment. “That’s a good point, but between the reporters and the Senate, they’re ready to leave us all out to rust. I’d rather they see we’re doing something, or we’re going to have every noble house breathing down our necks on top of this killer. Although your help has been appreciated in the past”—here, he nodded at Wayne—“folks are starting to wonder why you’re doing all our work for us. You’ve been doing good work, Colms, so I trust you not to offend anyone at the Village too much.”

“Thank you, sir. Fortunately, I don’t think I’m the one you have to worry about.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Wayne protested. “Have a little faith. What’s the worst that could happen?”

*** * ***

Marasi had never been inside the Village. She couldn’t deny some interest in seeing what it was like on the inside, but otherwise, all she knew was from compulsory history lessons in school, and a few vague mentions of how the Terris doled out justice within the confines of their own society. Although news from the inside was scarce, she’d heard that there had only been two violent incidents in the Village over the past decade. It was astounding that their crime rates were so low, and she had been interested in learning more about how justice _was_ executed rather than the traditional system of throwing someone in a cell to rot. Even in her short time working within the field of justice, she had seen many repeat offenders coming back through the system for the same crimes, or worse crimes. It was possible that crime rates within the Village simply weren’t reported as frequently, or they were handled in such a different way that—

“Ahem.” Wayne cleared his throat, startling Marasi out of her thoughts.

“What?”

“You’re doin’ that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“That thing you do when you’re nervous.” He pointed to her hands, where she was anxiously twisting her handbag. Marasi stilled immediately. “You ain’t got no reason to be nervous,” he said, sounding patient and unconcerned. “You don’t look like the kinda conner Granny V hates. Like Wax, for instance.”

“Who’s Granny V?”

“You’ll see, mate. Just take a deep breath ’n try not to look like such a conner.”

“You just said I don’t look like—”

“The kind _Granny V_ hates. The rest of the folk in here don’t like conners much no matter who they are. Even if they’re cute.” He flashed a smile and stepped into the Village with a spring in his step. Seeing she didn’t have much of a choice otherwise, Marasi trailed him inside.

The Village was a different world entirely. A leafy green canopy spread above them, shedding a veil of dappled golden sunlight upon the overgrown streets, swathing everything in lush emerald and buttery yellow. Flowers bloomed between gnarled roots that curved and flowed along the ground like river rapids, and a perfect stillness permeated the verdant air.

They passed little clusters of thatch-roofed houses, and the children that played in the streets paused to stare at the two of them as they strolled along. Marasi stuck close to Wayne’s side; after spending so much of her life invisible, she was unaccustomed to having all attention on her. In situations like this, it was more than a little uncomfortable—she felt she stuck out like a sore thumb, her constable’s uniform cutting a prominent figure against the soft greens. Wayne, of course, maintained his casual mannerism, though he seemed to be exaggerating his casual swagger with slightly more panache than usual. She couldn’t tell if it was for her benefit, or just because he wanted to annoy the Terrispeople.

Determined not to be too cowed, Marasi fixed her eyes straight ahead, trying to ignore the gazes she felt boring into her back. The ground was springy with grass, making footing difficult even with her sturdy boots. In a distracted moment, her foot caught on an unruly tree root, and she instinctually latched onto Wayne’s sleeve to steady herself. He caught her forearm.

“Alright there, mate?” He sounded amused, ruin him. She snatched her hand away, embarrassed.

“Fine,” she said shortly.

They stopped at a small log house guarded by three men in traditional Terris robes, metalmind bracers evident on their forearms. The one who looked like he was in charge squinted as he saw them approaching, and began shaking his head as they drew nearer.

“Wayne.” He squeezed the word out between his teeth. However, he didn’t seem angry—just exasperated. “I’m surprised to see you here without a disguise. What are you doing here?”

“Official business, mate. I gotta talk to Granny V ‘bout somethin’ real important.”

“And who’s she?” The apparent leader nodded at Marasi, though he didn’t look at her directly. Normally, she would be annoyed, but this time, she was rather grateful that all the attention was on Wayne.

“A friend. She’s a good alloy, promise. We just wanna talk to Granny V and we’ll be on our way.”

“Have some respect for the Elder,” said one of the others.

“What business do you have with Elder Vwafendal?” Asked the leader. He was a towering man, even darker in complexion than Wax. “You know that we govern our own matters. It is written in your laws that we have our own sovereignty.”

“And we’re not tryin’ to step on any toes, we’re just tryin’ to catch a killer.”

“That’s what you said last time,” the Terrisman reminded Wayne.

“And we caught ‘im, didn’t we? Look, she’s just here for an interview, not to arrest anyone. Information’s free, last I checked.” Wayne raised his voice slightly. “Plus, I brought some of that tea Granny V likes.”

From inside the house, Marasi heard a muffled “Oh, for Harmony’s sake, let them in.”

Shooting Wayne a warning look, the three Terrismen stood aside and let them inside. The little log house was charming, a rather rustic thing that seemed like it belonged to another place and time. The walls were hung with pictures that looked like they belonged to storybook tales of strange lands, and the air was filled with rich, earthy scents that were both entirely foreign to Marasi and felt like home. Wayne led her further in, where a stately elderly woman sat near an enormous fire pit, a small fire built in the centre. The woman—Elder Vwafendal, Marasi assumed—tended to a little brass kettle for tea.

“Well, Wayne, it’s been quite a while since I’ve seen you,” she said. “Or are you going by a new Terris alias today?”

Wayne chuckled and settled down across from the old woman, leaving Marasi to hover awkwardly behind him until he patted the floor next to him and she, too, sat. From one of his duster pockets, Wayne procured a satchel and tossed it to the woman when she held out her hands expectantly. Despite the cane sitting next to her, Elder Vwafendal caught it, seemingly with no problems.

“Just Wayne’ll do today, ma’am.”

“As I understand it, you are not here to torment the young ladies today?”

“Only you, Granny V.”

“As irreverent as ever, I see,” said Elder Vwafendal. For once, Wayne didn’t make a comment about ‘irrelevance’ or whatever other similar-sounding word he could pretend not to know. “Who are you, child?” This time, the old woman’s eyes cut directly to Marasi, who felt skewered and sliced apart nineteen different ways. The woman was not an imposing figure, but she had an undeniable presence, and her eyes were deep with wisdom.

“Marasi Colms, ma’am,” Marasi answered quietly.

“I am Elder Vwafendal. You’re a constable?”

“Yes, ma’am. An analyst, technically.”

“I think I have heard about you. You have taken to running around with my grandson, too, have you not?”

“Occasionally, yes. Ma’am.”

“Marasi here did lots of work in the University ‘bout reducing crime in Elendel instead of just punishing it,” said Wayne. Marasi noted that his accent slipped into something a little more formal, with fuller, rounded vowels. Much like the Terris accent, in fact. She didn’t think he did it intentionally. As he talked, Elder Vwafendal put the tea Wayne brought on to steep. “We were hopin’ to ask you ‘bout the information you keep on local Ferrings.”

“So I heard,” Elder Vwafendal said quietly. “I hope running to the Village for answers on your murderers is not going to become a frequent occurrence.”

“He wouldn’t be one who lives in the Village anymore, ma’am. He’s a Survivorist.” Wayne nudged Marasi, silently urging her to explain the case in more detail.

“He would have very extreme views on Survivorism, perhaps due to an event that left him feeling abandoned or particularly used by the noble class. He has a vendetta against the nobles of Elendel in particular, and he is very charismatic. I’ve theorised that he may be a duralumin Ferring.”

Elder Vwafendal sighed and sat in silence for a few moments. “I think I remember someone who matches your description. It was long ago, and he never had any sort of connection to the Village, so I only know of him by some slight reputation.” Elder Vwafendal poured three cups of tea and offered two to Marasi and Wayne, but did not touch her own. “Wait here.” She stood, using her cane to help though she appeared quite strong enough to stand on her own, and disappeared into an adjacent room.

Marasi sipped quietly at her tea, and Wayne nudged her again. “See?” He whispered to her. “This ain’t so bad.”

“She actually seems to _like_ you,” she replied.

Wayne chuckled. “She’s the only woman what can keep me in line.” He winked.

Marasi took a sip of her tea, and seconds later, Elder Vwafendal returned, concern lining her face. “They are gone,” she said. “I kept files on all of the known Ferrings I could find in this city, and the ones from the year I was looking for are all missing. Someone stole them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost started rambling about Terris justice for another 4 paragraphs, so you were all spared by Wayne clearing his throat. I tried to get all of the information about the Village and Grandmother V as accurate as I could (from a different POV from Wax, who hates it there), and I wasn't sure what Wayne's dynamic with her would be like, so. #ITRIED
> 
> Anyway, like I said earlier, I'm off to Europe for a few weeks, but I might be able to pump out another chapter during the in-between travel time. We're getting super close to the end (of THIS part), you guys! Things are picking up!


	12. Demimonde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marasi and Wayne find themselves among the True Survivorists, a group of religious radicals, on their investigation to find the murderer. Unfortunately, moving closer to the truth means the killer is moving closer to them, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god you guys, I know it took me 90 years to get here, but the True Survivorist meeting just really did not want to happen at all. If it feels a bit stunted, just bear with me on that one. Anyway, we only have about 3 more chapters until the END. I hope you enjoy even though I struggled with this chapter a lot!

 

“You sure you didn’t just lose ‘em? Happens to me all the time. I forget which coat I put things in, usually ‘cause my brain’s all lubricated, if you catch my meaning. You been hitting the bottle recently?”

Granny V let out a long, beleaguered sigh. She looked an awful lot like she _could_ use a bottle or two.

“They’re gone, child. I kept the records in this box, but as you can see, it’s now empty.”

Wayne watched as Marasi immediately dug around in her handbag. Her notebook was a different one from the one she usually brought—there had to be some sort of explanation for all her rustin’ notebooks—but she flipped it open, her expression steeling into the Constable Look. Wasn’t nearly as terrifying as Wax’s, he’d give her that, but that look usually meant the other person was about to get the what-for.

“When was the last time you checked these files, ma’am?” She asked.

“Three weeks ago, I believe,” Granny V replied, frowning and closing the box. “And before you ask, no, I did not notice anything peculiar the last time. I haven’t noticed them missing until now, but I can’t tell you how long they’ve been missing.”

“You seen anyone ‘round what looks like they don’t belong?” Wayne asked; Marasi readied her pencil. Granny V just shook her head. “Well, ‘f you ask around—real nice-like, not suspicious or anything—we’d be much obliged.”

“I have a theory that our perpetrator is a duralumin Ferring,” added Marasi. “A Connecter.”

A look of understanding crossed Granny V’s weathered face, though she hesitated to nod her agreement. It probably chafed at her that she had to cooperate with a conner. Wayne could get behind that. “I’ll send someone to Asinthew—Waxillium—if I find anything.”

Wayne and Marasi said their goodbyes and departed to the constabulary, where Marasi made note of their findings, and then moved on to Ladrian Manor. Wax was just getting in as they stepped out of the cab.

“Oi!” Wayne called, grabbing his attention. “We’re back! Granny V finally kicked us out, but she says to tell you I’m still her favourite grandson.” Wayne grinned as Marasi shot him a tired look.

“We weren’t kicked out,” she said, “but we didn’t quite find what we’re looking for, either. The files were gone.”

Wax frowned mightily as the new butler—Wayne shot him a distrustful look and mumbled a ‘don’t try anythin’ funny, y’hear?’—let the three of them in the front door. “Gone?”

“Aw, mate,” Wayne interrupted, too loudly. “Don’t tell me your hearing’s goin’, too. I keep sayin’ you’re gonna go deaf on account of all the explosions you cause.”

“Wayne, shut up,” said Wax. “What do you mean?”

“Lord Waxillium,” the housekeeper, Miss Grimes, interrupted, hurrying into view. “I’ve a letter for you, sir.”

“Thank you. Bring it to the study in a few hours.”

“But, sir—”

Wax’s attention had already turned back to Marasi. “What do you mean, they were gone?”

Wayne silently took the letter Miss Grimes was waving. She gave him a look and he just shrugged innocently, opening the letter and skimming its contents. He whistled.

“Just that,” Marasi said. “All of the records she was looking for. Vanished.”

“She couldn’t get them from any of the Archivists?”

“I assume she would have helped us otherwise.”

“You should really read this,” Wayne said.

“Later.” Wax waved his hand. Wayne could hear the frown in his voice. God Beyond, Wayne’d tried to pound into his head that frowning all the time’d make it permanent, but Wax had never listened. And now look at him. Not that Wayne could, because he was busy reading. “I don’t see how the people at the Village couldn’t have noticed someone strange walking around. Outsiders tend to stick out. It must have been an inside job, but—”

“Mate?”

“What, Wayne?”

Wayne slapped the note into Wax’s palm. “Just read it.”

It took Wax a few seconds to skim the contents. “This is from Grandmother V. There _was_ someone spotted in the area, but nobody seemed to think much of it. He didn’t look Terris, and he was pretty clearly an outsider. Talked his way inside, and no-one remembers seeing him leave.” Wax sighed. “I guess this calls for another trip to the Village to ask some questions. Wayne, you up for it?”

Wayne grinned. “Sorry, mate, I do reckon I’ve got a date.” He winked over at Marasi, who rolled her eyes, turning pink.

“Right. Be careful, both of you.”

“We’re safe as giraffes in a corral, mate,” Wayne said, saluting. “ _You_ be careful.”

*** * ***

“Stop fussing.”

“I ain’t fussin’.”

“You are, too. Just hold still for a moment.”

“Now who’s the one fussing?”

“I ain’t— I’m _not_ fussing!”

“Excuse me,” a confused someone interrupted Marasi and Wayne, his expression pulling into greater heights of confusion as he saw them—Wayne annoyedly adjusting Marasi’s hair, Marasi scowling at him and attempting to fix the collar of his shirt. “Um. Is everything alright over here?”

“We’re dating,” Wayne said with a grin, slinging his arm around Marasi’s shoulders as she snapped a “We’re _fine_!” and ground her heel into Wayne’s foot. That woman! He strained to keep the carefree grin on his face, only succeeding by virtue of his own stubbornness.

The stunned and slightly disturbed young man, who probably meant well, held his hands up in surrender. “I can see that,” he said slowly, backing away. Wayne didn’t have a clue who he was addressing.

Wayne’d never seen anybody walk away from a situation that speedily.

He retracted his arm from around Marasi’s bristling shoulders and grinned down at her. “You done fussin’ yet?”

“Are you?” She challenged.

He chuckled and reached over to tweak a few strands of her hair, just to annoy her. “Look,” he said, “if you’re just nervous ‘cause I’m such a fine specimen of masculinity”—she actually _snorted_ , which was really kinda adorable—“I should be all gentlemanly ’n inform you that you got all the reason to be nervous. I mean, I _am_ real charming ’n handsome ’n brave”—he pulled back to tick each virtue off on his fingers—“’n humble, ’n generous, ’n smart, ’n eloquent.”

Marasi stared at him in flat amusement. “I’m really glad you can count to seven.”

Wayne held up the seven fingers he’d ticked off. “C’mon mate, have some faith in me. I gots ten fingers to count on most of the time, so I can at least count that high. On account of how smart I am.”

“Of course. I shouldn’t have doubted you.” She sighed, pressing her lips together briefly as a faint frown flickered across her face. “I’m not entirely opposed to not doing this, you know,” she said.

“You’re always so embarrassed ‘bout introducing me to your friends. You rethinkin’ this relationship already?”

This earned a small smile out of her, the concerned crease between her brows fading. “I don’t know where else I’ll find a man with seven entire qualities,” she deadpanned.

Wayne couldn’t help but chuckle again. “Right. Shall we?” He offered her his arm with a grin, and she took it with only the slightest reproachful look. It was a little surprising ‘cause there was at least fifty ways to hold a man’s arm properly—or maybe Steris was just rustin’ his nuts when she told him that.

They both steeled themselves and headed into Kelrose’s Survivorist church.

Wayne immediately recognised a few of the people there, the same youth leaders they’d met during the soup kitchen thing. There were about six others who were strangers. Wayne tried to memorise their features as much as possible, but there was only one new person who seemed to have anything resembling influence over the rest of the group, and all of them seemed to defer to the woman he recognised from the soup kitchen. As he recalled, her name was Shanna, and she was rusting beautiful in the way only nobles knew how to be; a sharp, real shiny, too-good-to-be-sullied-by-common-hands sorta way. He disliked her immediately, because she gave off the air she was better than everybody due to how clever she was. Wayne could appreciate a clever person, but folk what thought they were cleverer than anybody else were a different matter.

The way she stared at them when she noticed their arrival was the sort of stare that drove under your skin; it wanted to get in your blood and rust you from the inside out. She was the first to approach them with a smile that was all sharp edges.

“And here are the new friends Kelrose won’t stop talking about!” She sounded plenty cheerful, like she’d been stuffed with too much sugar to hide the taste of poison. “It’s such a pleasure to see you again, my dears. Marasi and…” Shanna waited expectantly, staring at Wayne.

“Wayne. Nice ’t see you again, too. Shanna, right?”

The woman nodded, flashing a smile Wayne could’ve cut his finger on. “I don’t know I properly introduced myself last time we met. I’m Kelrose’s assistant youth pastor in the church.”

“And you’re his lieutenant here?” Marasi added, gesturing around. Wayne’s attention snagged on the way her voice hitched just a little too much on the last word—she was anxious. Rusts. They shoulda come up with some sort of code for if things went wrong. Like ‘rusted buckets’ or somethin’.

“Yes, something like that. Anything Kelrose doesn’t have the time for gets redirected to me.” Shanna, on the other hand, sounded like she’d never been nervous in her life. She probably hadn’t. Folk like her ain’t never had any reason to be nervous. Instead, there was something sly and slithery in her eyes; like a snake in the Roughs. With those snakes, you never knew it was there until you were almost standing on top of it, and their poison could kill even a koloss-blooded man in thirty seconds. Wayne’d been bit by one of those before—the snake, although the half-koloss was also a good story—and it’d been real nasty. Shanna kept talking. “How much do you know about us?”

“Enough,” Wayne said with an easy shrug and a grin. He toned down his Roughs accent and added a little bit of a nobleman’s lilt. “But if you had any advice for newcomers it’d sure be welcome.”

“Well, I’ll admit this is a bit of an unusual circumstance,” Shanna mused, her face bright and open. Wayne didn’t trust it for a second. “We usually only recruit one person at a time, so you two got very lucky. I understand that Marasi put a good word in for you, Wayne?”

“’S right, ma’am. She’s a regular ol’ sugarpie, she is.”

Shanna’s perfect mask of exuberance faltered faintly. Marasi’s responding smile could have obliterated him on the spot. “He comes up with the most bizarre nicknames,” she said, chewing every word slightly more intently than usual.

“How long have you two been together? I don’t recall you seeming quite this close when we first met.”

“Oh, it’s a real good story,” Wayne jumped in before Marasi could say anything. If she was gonna kill him for this later anyway, he had to make it good. “Y’see, _she_ asked to court _me_ , caught me completely by surprise. I actually heard she was gonna ask me on a date from a mutual acquaintance, see, ’n when she did ask me, she was so adorably nervous that—”

Marasi gave a maddeningly patient smile. “He’s got it all backwards, actually. He actually wept when he went to his knees and asked me.” The nerve of that woman!

Shanna didn’t look like she knew who to believe. “Most… unconventional,” she said, unsure, though she still wore a smile. “May I ask how serious it is?”

“Serious as the plague,” Wayne said. He heard Marasi give a little sigh and she gripped his arm in what probably looked like a loving gesture.

She had real sharp fingers, she did. “We’ve been trying to keep it quiet,” Marasi confessed, making a rusting good attempt at an apologetic look. “I’m afraid my mother wouldn’t approve much. And,” she added, a little guiltily, “it’s a little exciting to have such a delightful secret.” She was better at the acting thing than he expected, he’d give her that. It was actually pretty impressive.

“Ah,” said Shanna, reciprocating the smile. “Say no more. I understand. Anyway, you were asking about advice I can give you…” She hummed thoughtfully. “We do have leadership positions, but we are here to give guidance to those who need it. One of the fundamental tenets of Survivorism is that all people must make their own way; it’s our hope to put people on equal footing, so it is the hard-working, the visionaries, that make the greatest mark on the world. Not those who are born into wealth or influence.”

Easy thing to say, for someone who was born into wealth and influence. “Who else is there, then?” Marasi asked. “Besides you and Kelrose.”

Shanna pointed out the others who’d looked important at the soup kitchen. “We have two more besides, Lilsa and Martenn. I haven’t seen much of Martenn lately, but he disappears sometimes. If you had any questions you didn’t want to bring to Kelrose or me, I’d suggest you talk to him—he’s the sort of person you can talk to for five minutes and feel like you’ve known him for fifteen years.”

Marasi’s grip tightened slightly on Wayne’s arm. He shifted his hand over to pat her hand softly. “I know some people like that,” Wayne said with a jovial chuckle. “It’s too bad he’s not here right now. I’d’ve liked to meet him.”

“He has spells like this,” Shanna said. “We don’t know much about his background, but we know he’s had a hard life. When he came to us, he was… very much a broken man. He ate up the Survivor’s teachings like a starving man having his first meal in days.”

Marasi nodded. “I think all of us have experienced that at one time or another. It’s nice to find like-minded people who take such solace in Survivorist teachings.”

“Of course,” Shanna said with another sharp smile. She stretched her hand out for Wayne and Marasi to shake. “Welcome to the True Survivorists. Through us, the truth of the Survivor’s teachings will stand strong.”

*** * ***

The rest of the meeting passed relatively quickly. It still seemed like a youth meeting—they discussed Survivorism and there was some small mention of waking Elendel to ‘the truth.’ Throughout all the words spoken, however, Marasi felt an undercurrent of tension. The brief mentions of Pathism held a little too much vitriol. The discussions of Kelsier, the Survivor himself, were a little too fanatical. The tenets they followed were taken a little too literally. Like electricity behind a wall, Marasi could feel the slightest thrill fuzzing over her skin, something dark lingering behind the façade.

If she got too close, she feared it would shock the very heart of her.

Together, she and Wayne made small talk with the others after the meeting. It was all so pleasant, so normal—sometimes she could convince herself that she hadn’t seen the firearms beneath the church, that Kelrose hadn’t suggested that they bring the city to its knees if only to put it on the same level as its less prosperous.

When they left, it was getting to be quite late. They said goodnight and split off from the church to find a cab, Marasi still holding Wayne’s arm gently. As much as she hated to admit it, his presence had been more than helpful; whenever she felt her breath catching, he hid the shake in her hands by covering her fingers with his own, or changed the subject in that effortless way of his. She kept hold of him long even after they hailed a cab and he’d helped her inside.

They both slumped in their seats, exhaling heavy breaths in near-unison.

“So,” said Wayne. “Martenn.”

“I think that’s the strangest thing about this job.” Marasi rubbed her forehead, feeling for all the world like she’d been coiled nearly to the point of bursting and now that she could relax, she was boneless; a limp doll slouched against the side of the cab. “In theory, I know that the perpetrator is a person, but when you can give a monster a name, it bestows…” She frowned, questing for the words.

“It makes ‘em human,” Wayne supplied, his eyes unfocused, fixed on a spot at the top of the cab. He didn’t look nearly as tired as she felt, but there was an unusual crease in his brow. “Ain’t nice to be reminded that the monsters that walk around in the shadows are made of the same stuff we are.”

Marasi was beginning to read the things Wayne’s voice didn’t say. Certain inflections, enunciations, clauses. _And sometimes, I can’t tell the difference,_ his silence said.

Honestly, sometimes Marasi couldn’t tell, either. Everyone liked to believe they were doing the right thing for the right reasons; everyone liked to justify what they did, even if it was the wrong thing for the right reasons. “Still,” Marasi said. “I think that maybe, it’s not exactly a bad reminder.” Wayne’s gaze finally fell to her, inquisitive. Marasi ventured a smile. “At least, it makes _me_ want to be a better person.”

Wayne’s mouth tugged into a gently lopsided grin. “Something’s gotta keep me grounded, I guess. Else my amazingness’d get to my head.”

Marasi laughed. “That’s exactly it.” She was beginning to feel better after the rest of the night, and she could feel the smile settling more comfortably on her lips. “Thank you for coming with me. I don’t know I could have done this without you.”

“Nah.” Wayne waved it off, shaking his head. “You woulda been fine. Thought you were gonna kill me at least eight times over the last few hours, though.”

“Thinking about it was what kept _me_ grounded,” she retorted. Wayne gave a little snort of laughter.

The carriage slowed to a halt, the horse whickering anxiously outside. Wayne frowned and sat up to peer out the window, and in a matter of moments, he was out of his seat, throwing the door of the cab open, and hopping out. Bewildered, Marasi sat up and leaned forward to squint after him.

“Morveau!” He called out.

Indeed, the staff sergeant was there, striding just a few feet ahead of them. In fact, it almost looked like the entire constabulary was there, carriages and motorcars cluttering the street, constables lining the street and redirecting the flow of traffic. When Morveau stopped and turned toward them, Wayne paused to help Marasi down from the cab.

“I sent a junior constable to see about finding you earlier, but you weren’t anywhere to be found.” Morveau’s sergeant routine was on in full force, his furrowed brow casting his eyes in shadow. “I got called down about an hour ago, but it’s been chaos. Captain-General Reddi has also been called down and he’s been in there the whole time I’ve been here.” He nodded up at the house currently being blocked off. Marasi didn’t recognise the place by reputation, but she did recognise the area—it was just down the street from Ladrian Manor. “Anyway,” he continued. “I’m glad you’re here now. It sounds to me like we have a situation.” She didn’t like the way he enunciated the last word.

“He’s struck again?” Marasi asked. Morveau just nodded grimly. Something sick and slippery welled within Marasi. They’d been working to find out who was the cause of all the murders, and while they investigated, he’d killed yet another person. It was only a day after Vadreaux, too; the killer was escalating, and it was happening fast. Most recorded cases from both the Basin and the Roughs had reported that at this point, the killer had gone into a frenzied murder spree that culminated in their disappearance, or a standoff with law enforcement that often ended in the killer’s death.

It was a sad day when they had to hope for the latter.

The three of them waited for another tenuous fifteen minutes before Reddi sought them out. He looked haggard, like he hadn’t slept for days, though he’d seemed just fine earlier in the morning. Marasi’s heart sank to the pit of her stomach. Whatever this was, it wasn’t good.

“We can take you to the crime scene now,” he said. “Just… mind where you step.”

Marasi had to resist the urge to grasp Wayne’s sleeve as they proceeded into the house. They passed a sitting room where Marasi noticed a middle-aged woman, presumably the wife of the deceased, on a couch, staring emptily into space. The feeling of dread only increased.

The smell of marewill hit her as they entered the hall before the room, thick and cloying. Bile rose at the back of Marasi’s throat and a wave of lightheadedness thrummed through her head as a memory clawed its way to the surface—Vadreaux, his severed head nailed to the wall.

She pressed on.

Morveau and Wayne went ahead of her, but Wayne stopped suddenly in the doorway. Marasi bumped into his back and frowned, craning her neck to see around him. He balked and turned toward her rapidly, one arm going around her shoulder. He turned her away from the doorway as he pulled her further down the hall.

His mouth had drawn into a thin, harsh line, eyes darkening. Every hint of a smile and a joke had disappeared. Whatever had been in that room, it had been enough to drain Wayne of every modicum of humour he could muster.

A week ago, Marasi might have protested at being dragged away from the crime scene. This time, she let him lead her a few steps away. This time, _his_ hand had locked a little too tightly on _her_ arm. Marasi gently covered his hand with hers, peering into his face.

“Are you alright?”

He nodded. “Yeah.” It wasn’t very convincing. “There’s some things nobody needs to see, is all.”

She gave his fingers a little squeeze. “I’ll go talk to the victim’s family.”

*** * ***

Wayne took a breath and squared his shoulders before he went back into the room. Beyond the pulpy mess of the corpse stretched a wall filled with torn portraits, some of which had been flung to the floor to make room for the new message.

Scrawled across the wall in blood were three words, not just one.

_LADRIAN SAYS HI._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for this cliffhanger.
> 
> (I'm not even remotely sorry.)


	13. Danse Macabre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wax is missing, and it's a matter of time before the killer disposes of him. Can Marasi and Wayne find him before it's too late?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh holy hell you guys, I finally had the time and motivation to work on this fic, and I decided, WHAT THE HELL, I'M JUST GOING TO FINISH THE ENTIRE THING AND POST IT ALL IN ONE GO. So here it is. The last three chapters. I'm shaking and crying inside.

Waxillium was not back at Ladrian Manor.

He was not in the Village.

He was not at the constabulary.

Marasi conducted her own search while Wayne searched all of Wax’s lesser-known haunts. He was not at the Harms manor. He was not at the pubs, the library, the factories. There was no correspondence left with his household staff.

Wax was gone.

When Marasi finally met up with Wayne again at the constabulary, she immediately knew something was desperately, horribly wrong. There was no hint of a smile on his face, no jovial exchanges to be made; just a shadow lurking behind his eyes.

Maybe a distraction would do him good.

“Right,” she sighed, directing her focus back to the case. “Here’s what we know about the victim. His name is—”

“I don’t care who he was,” Wayne said suddenly, his voice biting with an unfamiliar edge. He stood at the doorway, arms crossed, alarmingly still. Once again, he struck her as someone either perpetually in motion or perpetually stationary; this time, his lack of movement was like the coil of a viper, pulling him far too taut. “We need to be out there right _now_ , lookin’ for Wax.”

The sharpness in him finally took on a distinct shape in Marasi’s mind. It was taking everything within him not to spring out the door and start tearing through the streets of Elendel, uprooting every brick, every plank of wood, until Waxillium was found.

He wasn’t the sort of person to show restraint, so why was he holding back? “We need to look back… back at the first murders. At Hastings and Cett. There’s gotta be answers there. A reason why they were targeted first. It’s just patterns, right? You’re good at that.”

It smacked her hard in the chest as his voice hitched on the last word. Desperation. Fear. Wayne wasn’t the sort to panic, and he could be a leader if he wanted to. But without Waxillium…

He was lost.

Marasi focused fully on him, letting her worry, the facts, the case, all fall away. She took a deep breath and crossed to Wayne, and without the slightest hesitation, took his hands in her own. “Wayne? Look at me.”

He looked, but his dark eyes were distant, distracted. He searched her gaze, and she saw nothing but concern and agitation. “We’re going to find him,” she said, and gave his hands a squeeze.

“He’s alive. He’s gotta be,” Wayne said. It tried to sound brave, but fell flat, coming out hollow and fragile. Marasi gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

“He’ll be fine.” She didn’t believe her own words, but something in them must have soothed Wayne, because he nodded. “I need you to focus, alright? Wax needs you to focus, too. He was on his way to the Village before he disappeared, so we can start there and work backwards. I’ll ask some of the constables here to start a background check on people who were associated with Hastings, in particular, and keep an eye out for the name Martenn.”

Wayne nodded again. “We shouldn’t split up,” he said. “Wax is collateral ‘cause we’re getting too close. It’s a warning. If we split up now, it’d be easy to pick us off individually.”

“To the Village, then?”

“To the Village.”

Marasi left a handful of her fellow constables with instructions on where to look, and they set out for the village at a rapid pace, Wayne a frighteningly silent presence in the motorcar. There was something strange about returning to the Village, like a perceptible haze had settled over the greenery, muting the lushness of the light and pressing drearily over the tree canopy. Surprisingly, they were let in to see Elder Vwafendal with little issue, though her wrinkled face creased in confusion as they entered her cabin.

“Wayne? I just saw Asinthew a matter of hours ago, what could you possibly need now?”

“He’s gone,” Wayne said shortly, and the old woman’s eyes widened. Marasi stepped in hurriedly.

“We have reason to believe he’s been kidnapped by the murderer, ma’am,” she explained. “He doesn’t have any reason to kill Waxillium, but we’re retracing his steps to see if we can figure out where he is sooner rather than later. If he arrived here safely, that’s good news. Did you tell him anything?”

“Yes.” A cloud of concern passed over Elder Vwafendal’s face. “Before I sent that message, I had asked around and some of my people recall a strange man walking around the Village. For some reason, they didn’t seem to think much of it, even when I was asking them about it. I also asked my Archivists, who sometimes store important information such as the files that have gone missing.”

“And?”

“His name is Martenn Belvar,” she said, “and you were only half right, young lady.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s not a duralumin Ferring—he’s a duralumin compounder.”

*** * ***

A sick feeling wriggled in the pit of Marasi’s stomach as she drove away from the Village. Wayne said nothing, but she could feel his disquiet as a palpable thing.

A compounder. What could someone do with unlimited trust? She had wondered how Lord Hastings, the first victim, had put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger, how Lady Renna Cett had slit her throat with a smile on her face.

She didn’t wonder any longer, and now Wax was in the hands of such a man. If not, he was—

No. Though she was prepared for the possibility, she wasn’t giving up on him. Not yet. For now, she had to focus on finding him.

Wayne bounced his foot, agitated, but simmered in his silence all the way back to the precinct headquarters. Idly, she wondered if he blamed her for this—had he agreed to go with Wax, this might not have happened.

Looking at his deeply contemplative expression, that wasn’t the case. It was the same expression she had seen over a year ago in an abandoned warehouse, something hollow and haunted, tormented by the past. He didn’t blame her; he blamed himself.

He could be so astonishingly selfless sometimes.

The thought surprised her, but she pushed it away before she could examine it any further. She pulled up at the precinct and parked her motorcar sloppily, not bothering to straighten out before rushing into the building, Wayne hot on her heels.

“Martenn Belvar!” she called at Lieutenant Caberel, who had been tasked with the bulk of the research. Constable Miklin, who was in charge of the records office, had invaded the desk just beside her and they were picking through reports. Specifically, reports from the Hastings case. Miklin jumped and emitted a high-pitched yelp, but Caberel scrambled for a pile on her desk.

“Here!” She raised a folder into the air triumphantly. “Passed it a few minutes ago.” Wayne snatched it from her hand and skimmed it over. He sucked a slow breath through his teeth and exhaled it with a huff.

“No address.”

Of course. “This is the first time he’s taken a hostage. All of his other crimes were within the homes, with nothing to hide. He had to go to ground somewhere.”

Wayne nodded, but didn’t tear his eyes away from the file. “Somewhere he’s got a connection to, then. Think he’d go somewhere symbolic, or more personal?”

“I—” Marasi faltered. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do. C’mon, mate. What would your profile tell you?”

Marasi stopped to take a breath and think. The marewill. The spikes. The words on the wall. “Symbolic, definitely.”

“He’s here.” Wayne slapped the file with one hand and held it out for her to look at.

_Martenn Belvar. Next of kin: Amala Belvar. DECEASED._

“I don’t understand, Wayne—”

“I recognise that name. She was an employee of Hastings’. Died in a machinery accident.”

The mistreatment of his workers. Hastings’ factories struggling while he pocketed all the money.

“That’s why he was first,” Marasi murmured. “Because it was _personal_. The factory… which one was it?”

*** * ***

The sharp silhouette of the abandoned factory loomed above them, a stark black outline against the velvet-dark sky. It had been three years since it closed its doors, a long line of ethical misconducts culminating in a freak accident and the death of one of its workers—Martenn Belvar’s older sister.

“He might not be here,” Marasi whispered. She didn’t know why she felt it was necessary to keep her voice hushed.

“He is,” Wayne whispered back.

“It might be a trap,” she said.

“It is,” he said. “You got your gun?”

Marasi nodded mutely, and they approached the door together. The padlock and chain around the front door had been broken, and the ground was scuffed with marks. Someone had been inside recently. Wayne glanced over his shoulder and, at a nod from Marasi, slowly pushed the door open into the darkness.


	14. In The Darkest Hour

Inside the factory, it was dead silent except for the constant _drip, drip, drip_ of water leaking through the roof. It stank faintly of mildew, the air damp and musty, thick with dust and disuse. Behind Wayne, Marasi’s boots made soft clicks against the hard stone, her breaths determinedly deep and even.

Crates had been stacked, moved, opened. Wayne’s toe nudged against something that skittered across the floor; it clinked delicately. Glass? In the darkness, he fumbled for the source of the sound. “Careful,” Marasi hissed. Wayne’s fingers found what he was looking for: a glass bottle. He raised it and sniffed. The scent had faded somewhat, but it was still unmistakeable. Marewill.

This was definitely the right place. Maybe the killer was out? He could have continued his spree after kidnapping Wax. That was what he was all about, right? Exacting revenge on the upper class, punishing them for their sins? Wax probably wasn’t the best house lord in Elendel, but he definitely wasn’t the worst. Wayne hoped the killer would take that into account, but if he was on the starting edge of a spree…

Had to move fast. Not enough time.

Wayne’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light, able to make out little more than the shapes of boxes and machines. He steered clear of these, picking his way through the building with as much care as he could muster.

A muffled thump and a groan sounded from a distant spot in the darkness.

No thought. Action. _Wax._

Primal instinct took over and Wayne bolted towards the sound. He knew intimately what the crack of bones sounded like. Had to make it in time. Had to be there. Had to help him—

_There._ A faint, flickering glow from an adjacent room. It had to be there.

He rushed into the room and took stock of the situation as quickly as he could. A crumpled body lay on the ground, blood caking the side of his head. Wax. Wayne hurried to his side and slumped to his knees, trying to examine Wax without touching him.

Wax looked up, and Wayne heaved a sigh of relief. He looked dazed, and blood stained one of his trouser legs, but otherwise, he was alive and didn’t seem to be mortally wounded. Wayne knew what those looked like. This was nothing Wax couldn’t bounce back from.

“Wayne?” Wax’s voice came out slurred, like he’d had too much to drink. “What’re you doing here?”

“’S alright, mate,” Wayne said, crouching low and watching Wax’s eyes. A little too distant, but his brain probably hadn’t been permanently damaged. That leg’d be hell for carrying him away from this rusted place, but he was alive and breathing, and for now, that was enough. “We’re here to get you outta this mess.”

“Can’t go anywhere, he said—” Wax trailed off, looking confused. Words weren’t coming to him right. _Rusts._ They had to get him to a doctor just in case. “ _You_ said ‘we.’”

“Yeah. Me ’n Marasi.”

“Where is she?”

*** * ***

When Wayne ran ahead, Marasi sighed and started after him in the darkness. She stepped on something that slid and she lost her footing, landing with a thump on her backside. With a little groan, she rolled over to her hands and knees. A sharper pain cut through the dull ache of her tailbone, shocking through her palm. Immediately, she retracted her hand. It felt like she’d cut her hand on some broken glass. Perfume bottles, probably. Cradling her hand, Marasi stood once again and stumbled in the direction she thought Wayne had headed, though she was more cautious of the machinery than he’d been.

_Hell._ Where had he gone? She couldn’t see a bloody thing. Finally, she found a brick wall and hugged against it, feeling her way forward with her good hand. Eventually, the wall gave way to a room, and she could see the glow of lantern light from a little farther away.

“Wayne?” She whispered. No answer. “ _Wayne?_ ”

Still nothing. Slowly, Marasi reached into the purse hanging at her side and removed her handgun.

The factory was far larger than she expected. In the darkness, she’d gotten completely turned around. The room she’d tripped into was entirely empty but for a lantern sitting on a stool that had seen better days. Half the room was encased in shadow. “Is someone here?”

“You don’t need that gun against me,” a voice sounded in the darkness. Something about that voice itched at her, gently nudging a part of her brain. _Safe,_ it said. “I would never hurt you.”

The distinct sense of unease evaporated and Marasi felt a breath releasing from her lungs, expelling tension she hadn’t even known she was hanging onto. Of course. What had she been concerned about? Her arm relaxed. She didn’t need a gun.

He stepped out of the shadows.

Martenn Belvar was a tall man, with dark hair and a gentle smile. His marewill-blue eyes were kind, brimming with compassion. When she saw him, it felt like something jarred into place. Like seeing a much-beloved childhood friend for the first time in years, like being reunited with a loved one after a long absence. The power of her affection and trust enveloped her, a numbing, infinite ocean. “Marasi Colms, wasn’t it?” His lips curved, a deeper smile. There was a shadow in his eyes.

This wasn’t right. But she trusted him. _He’s a compounder,_ the rational part of her mind screamed, but the other part wouldn’t listen. It just didn’t care. Martenn was trustworthy. One look into his face and she felt he was a missing part of her soul, the perfect fit to any empty spaces within her.

He paced a lazy circle around her. “You’ve been very efficient in getting in my way,” he said. “I was wondering if I would get to take you out, or if Kelrose would do it before I got the chance.” Martenn stopped in front of her, the edges of his smile like daggers. “It’s a shame, really. You didn’t have to die. But you’ll die with a pretty smile on your face now, won’t you?”

Marasi felt herself nodding, her mouth curling wistfully. _This is wrong,_ her mind whispered. She couldn’t stop herself. His voice dug deep within her and pressed at something perfectly unconditional.

She was too sedated with the strength of his duralumin compounding to feel fear, but a shock of cold clarity coursed through her for a single moment.

_There is no-one to save you, Marasi. If you don’t resist this, you’re dead. Do something._

For one of the first times in her life, Marasi set aside probability and statistics, and took a gamble.

She burned cadmium.

*** * ***

The sound of a gunshot slammed through the air, and Wayne froze.

Marasi.

But— She’d been just behind him—

No. Deep breaths. Not the time for panic. Marasi would be fine. She kept her head in the worst situations, faced down Miles Dagouter and came out on top. If her logical mind couldn’t stand against this, no-one could.

She was fine. She had to be. And he’d never hear the end of it if he couldn’t keep _him_ self together.

As a precaution, Wayne reached for Wax’s gun belt, hands shaking. The gun was still there, presumably untouched after a single instruction from Martenn.

_It ain’t that hard, hands,_ Wayne coached himself. _Just shoot before he can open his mouth. Easy._

His hands shook. His stomach flopped. The sound of gunfire still rang tinnily in his ears, and it sounded exactly like the one from thirteen years ago.

“And you must be Wayne.”

Every sense within Wayne sharpened, honing on the man who stepped into the light. Martenn wasn’t a lot to look at, and Wayne didn’t feel any differently, so he must not have been compounding at the moment. “From what I understand, I don’t have much to worry about from that gun in your hands.” Martenn nodded at how Wayne’s fingers trembled, white-knuckled, on the handgun.

Slowly, he removed his own gun from the inside of his threadbare jacket. “I don’t like guns, either, truth be told… So impersonal.” With a weary, uninterested expression, he levelled the gun—at Wax. “He wasn’t on my list, but they’re all the same, aren’t they? Feeding on the blood of the working class, their sweat, their tears.”

“Where’s Marasi?” Wayne’s voice came out hoarse, ragged.

“Dead, I imagine.” His lips twisted in the sickening approximation of a sympathetic smile. “Didn’t even hesitate. Just put the gun to her temple. If it’s any consolation to you, she died smiling.”

“No,” Wayne choked out. This wasn’t real. This was another bad dream. He raised Wax’s gun, but his head swum, vision blurring at the edges. _Just pull the trigger,_ he urged himself. _No,_ said his quivering hands. He was seeing double. In front of him stood two men—one tall, slim, simpering and sly. The other was shorter, rounder, blustering and begging. _Please don’t do this,_ he said as he scrambled for his pocketbook. _I have a family. I have children, a wife… You don’t have to do this. You can have it, all of it._

Wayne’s stomach heaved, and his head spun in circles. The lingering shudder of a bullet cracking through the air left the taste of rust in Wayne’s mouth. Like blood.

_Blood on his hands, on his face. The horrible, deafening echo rattling in his ears. The empty, hollow, lifeless black of dead eyes._

“Who’s it going to be?” Martenn whispered. “Your friend or me?”

Mouth dry, finger trembling on the trigger. The blood roared in his ears, bearing the erratic beat of his heart. He couldn’t remember how to breathe.

Martenn shrugged. “Your loss.”

Gunfire ripped through the air, thundering impossibly loud in the silence. Wayne stood, shocked, knees locked to keep himself from buckling. He couldn’t register where the shot had come from.

Martenn slumped to the floor. Eyes wide. When he fell, Wayne saw the side of his head blown to bits. Had he—

Marasi stepped out of the shadows, the barrel of her revolver smoking. Slowly, she approached Wayne, her expression inscrutable in his shock. Dimly, he felt her pry his fingers free from Wax’s gun, and a gust of air left his lungs as soon as the hot touch of the metal no longer stung his hands, replaced by the softness of her fingers wrapping around his.

“It’s over, Wayne,” she said quietly. “It’s alright.”

Something about her voice pulled him back, reeled him into the realm of consciousness. She stared earnestly into his face. Wax was still on the floor, dazed but alive, and Martenn—dead.

“I couldn’t do it,” Wayne heard himself whisper. “I couldn’t pull the trigger.” He sagged, all the tension released from his body. Marasi, somehow, held him up in an awkward sort of embrace. “I couldn’t do it,” Wayne whispered again.

“You didn’t have to.” For the fraction of a moment, Wayne felt Marasi’s arms wrap around him, likely to keep him from toppling over. “Now,” she said, pulling back when he had caught his breath and the cool clarity of sense returned to him. “I need your help getting Waxillium back to the motorcar. Can you do that?” Numb, he nodded.

Together, the three of them limped away from the factory in the pale grey light of dawn.


	15. In The Kingdom of Rust

At the end of a case, when everything had returned to normal and the pulse of the adrenaline had faded, none of the pressing horrors felt real. It was like the dawn of a new day after a nightmare-ridden night, sunshine washing the terrors away. In the light, the shadows did not seem as sharp, and the shapes that had seemed so menacing in darkness were revealed to be nothing more than mind tricks and illusion.

The tender rays of morning sunlight bathed Marasi in warmth as she curled on a settee in Waxillium’s sitting room, stifling a yawn with her good hand. Her other hand was bandaged, the glass extracted, the wound cleaned. If not for the ache throbbing in her palm and the exhaustion settling heavy on her shoulders, she felt like she would have been half convinced she’d dreamt the night’s events.

Shock did that, she recalled. Blinking blearily, Marasi finished penning her account of Martenn Belvar’s death, and what happened before. As tired as she was, Reddi was going to want a full report on his desk by afternoon, and it wouldn’t do to misremember things if she had to talk to the prosecutors’ office about this.

One-handed, she closed her notebook and sagged against the back of the couch, exhaling a sigh that lifted months’ worth of weight from her shoulders. It was over. They were all alive. A little worse for wear, perhaps, but it was enough. It shouldn’t have felt so relieving to know that she had pulled a trigger on another human being, but in all honesty, it did.

Before she could slip out of consciousness, the sound of a door creaking closed caught her attention. Boots thumped against the carpeted floor, and wearily, Marasi cracked her eyes back open in time to see Wayne slump down into the chair next to her. There were the beginnings of a smile on his face, but he still looked wan with strain, the shadows playing tricks in the dark of his eyes.

“He’ll be alright,” Wayne said, his voice returning to its jovial register, bright and sunny. “Took a nice knock to the head, but with any luck, it’ll make him smarter.” He followed it with a grin that was almost perfectly Wayne. Marasi felt something squirm inside her; sympathy, perhaps. The near-loss of Wax had nearly shattered him, and the knowledge that he couldn’t pull the trigger when it mattered broke him even more.

That was fine, she told herself firmly. He hadn’t needed to pull the trigger when she could pull it for him.

The ferocity of the thought surprised her.

Wayne removed his lucky hat from his head to run his fingers through his hair; it stuck up in silly places, defying all known laws of physics. “What happened, anyway? Belvar told me you were dead.” Something twinged in his tone. Two friends in one night—Marasi wasn’t sure she would have been able to bear it, either.

She shrugged. “He was compounding when he approached me. I figured that if he had ordered his victims to kill themselves every time, it was best that I just not hear his orders. So, I put up a cadmium bubble.” It was simple, really. Stretch time in her cadmium bubble enough, and she couldn’t make out much of anything being said outside. She had used the tactic often when Lord Harms tried to lecture her on proper conduct. Wayne’s eyebrows rose in appreciation as he figured out what had happened. “I hoped he would just tell me to shoot myself and put the gun up to my head, then fired a shot at the floorboards after he walked away.”

Marasi gave a sheepish smile. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever prayed to the Survivor as frantically as I did then. I thought for certain he was going to figure me out, and then it all would have been over.”

“You _wound_ me, madam!” Wayne declared in a pompous nobleman’s accent, clasping his hand to his breast. He dropped back into his regular accent. “I woulda come for you, mate. No friend of mine’s gonna get taken out by a fellow what looked like that.” Wayne paused, then tilted his head and squinted at her. “You alright?”

She managed a tired smile. “I’m alright. I suppose holding myself at gunpoint is a step up from someone else doing it. How about you? Are _you_ alright?”

Wayne was quiet for a moment too long. “Yeah,” he finally said. It came out sounding faintly strained. “Should probably get over the whole gun thing, though, I reckon. If you hadn’t’ve been there…”

“But I was,” Marasi said firmly. Wayne fell silent, and Marasi watched him. Even though they’d known each other for nearly two years, he was still such a mystery to her, sometimes. Like an ocean disguised as a pond, he layered façades over his true self, and she felt like she only saw the real Wayne in tiny glimpses, little reflections in the water that disappeared with the slightest ripple.

“Mara?” He’d never called her that before. Something twisted within her. “…Thanks.”

She waved her hand and settled back against the pillows. “It’s what I do. Dig you two out of trouble, save your backsides all the time… it’s practically a part of the job description by now.”

He gave a lopsided smile, all warmth. “You’re really somethin’, you know that?”

She couldn’t tear her eyes away. Her stomach fluttered.

 _Oh,_ she thought. _Not this again._

Before she could respond, Wayne stretched, yawned, and smacked his lips, scrubbing his hand through his hair once more before clapping the hat back onto his head. “Any case, if you were _that_ worried about your actin’ skills that you started prayin’ to a dead man for help, we really gotta go back to the drawing board. It’s back to the basics for us, and I’m not gonna let you get away with slackin’ this time, hear me?”

Marasi groaned. “I need to _sleep_ , Wayne.”

“We’ll sleep when we’re dead! Right now, we got work to do.”

Marasi just groaned again. Something soft thumped her gently in the head—a pillow. She sat up just to fling it back into his face. “You’re a menace,” she grumbled. “Fine. What did you have in mind?”

“Well, for starters…” A mischievous grin curled across Wayne’s lips. “Honey, if you love me…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more an epilogue than an ending but, HEY! YOU GUYS! I'M DONE! I hope you all enjoyed Part One and that you'll stick around for Part Two, which will take place after Bands of Mourning--after all, the matter of Kelrose and the True Survivorists still stands.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it! I love you all and with this, I am done forever. 
> 
> (Until Part 2.)


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